The Man Behind the Monster
by The Phantom Alchemist
Summary: Selim, orphaned and embittered, is rescued from the world's cruelty by a handsome phantom, but not before her face is ruined by a drunk man with a knife. As she watches her savior self destruct over a soprano who she knows cannot be his and struggles to make him grasp there's more than one person who can love him, she realizes that it is not disfigurement that makes one truly ugly.
1. Shifting Shadows

**This is my first Phantom of the Opera fanfiction. Be kind to me… please!**

**Disclaimer: This is Andrew Lloyd Weber's sandbox. I just play in it.**

* * *

Darkness. What does this word mean to you? Is it frightening? Does it send a shudder down your spine, cause goose bumps to erupt over your arms? Do you balk at the very idea? Could you spend an eternity cloaked in unending blackness?

I could. Without a second's hesitation, I would agree to it. Once upon a time, when I was a different person, the idea would have repulsed me, but no longer. I am a creature of shadows, transformed by unfortunate circumstances and crushed by the weight of the world's brutality.

I was orphaned at fourteen when my mother at last succumbed to the tuberculosis that had been ever lurking in her lungs, making her perpetually ill for most of her life. It was a miracle she even held out as long as she did. My father had vanished six years earlier without a trace, when I was eight years old, and there was never a word whispered of him since. He was far from an affectionate man, a drunk who swore and beat me when he came home and even struck my mother, who was too weak, too afraid, to take me and leave him. His disappearance was somewhat of a relief to both of us.

And I found myself on my own in Paris, unsure of myself and my future, distraught by my mother's death and constantly hoping for a miracle. An elderly couple who lived down the street from my mother and me took me in. I began to recover from my grief. They were good people, but very old, and by my seventeenth year both had died. I was devastated, falling into another despair similar to but not as potent as the anguish that accompanied my mother's death.

They left all their worldly possessions to their three grandchildren, a greedy trio of rude and uncompassionate people who took what they could for themselves, each trying to best the other in spoils, and threw me back onto the street with no remorse or second thought.

I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. How could I trust people any longer? Anyone I became emotionally attached to died, people showed me no compassion, showed no one any compassion. They were all wicked and unfeeling, and I had no desire to associate with them any further. I took refuge in an abandoned chapel dedicated to a saint whose name was so worn beneath her statue at the church's front that I could not read it. I found work for an unpleasant man at a textile factory as a seamstress, which was miserable work and paid little, but I could do no better than that. It was in that church I took to shadows, something I had once feared, submerging myself in what some might call the less favorable arts. It was sacrilegious and irreverent to do inside what had once been a church, but I immersed myself in dark magic with little thought to be had over the blasphemy I was committing.

It began in the dead of night that winter, which was particularly cold; it was difficult enough to get sleep in the frigid air as it was. I was awoken in the dead of night by a band of traveling gypsies and their infernal chanting, who had set up camp not twenty yards from my dilapidated chapel. Exhausted from my miserable work and furious with them for disturbing me, I embarked outside, crept into one of their carts, and stole a spell book out of vengeance.

I attempted black magic and forms of Wicca, casting spells of luck and fortune in a desperate attempt to change my circumstances, cursing my superiors and those who worked alongside me that I did not like, trying to build up my skill and my soul's energy to attempt necromancy in order to return my mother to the living. But none of my spells worked, no matter how hard or how often I tried. But the hope of success was all I had, so I persisted. Working my miserable job in the daytime, spell casting by candlelight, and getting not nearly enough sleep. I lived a pitiful, repetitive existence. Not truly a life at all, entirely alone.

I was everything I had once scorned; a beggar, a thief, a witch of sorts. I pleaded to strangers for pocket change, a franc here, a sous there, to help pay for meager pittances of food, though I stole my rations more often than I bought them. My thievery extended to my place of work, where I would smuggle out rolls of black cloth to make my clothes out of, entertaining spiteful thoughts of how I worked so hard and was not paid nearly enough for my labor, and they at the very least owed me the cloth. I stole artifacts to sell and picked the pockets of strangers and travelers and raided gypsy carriages at nighttime, which was only too easy. I only had to wait for them to fall unconscious after the alcohol they gorged themselves upon had taken its toll.

I wore nothing but black; black gloves, black stockings, black shoes, black dresses (made from my stolen cloth) and, what I was most proud of, a wonderful black cloak, which I had bought after three months of saving my wages and tucking away the money I made selling stolen objects. It was thick and warm and lined with red satin, and it saved my life more than once in the winter, when I would surely have frozen to death without it.

My brown hair was wild and ever tangled and my green eyes always dull and bitter. Bruises frequently blossomed on my skin, marks I earned from beatings endured at the hands of those who caught me in the midst of thievery. They would swing at me, kick me, throw me to the ground, and I would do nothing to fight them off. I deserved what I got if I was not quick enough, and they deserved to beat me if they were clever enough to catch me. I was so numb that I barely felt the blows. If they were particularly brutal I would sometimes snatch at their clothes or faces, trying to obtain strands of hair or scraps of cloth to use in spells to cast curses upon them. Needless to say, my attempts were in vain.

I was called a witch and a demoness, the devil's wife, sorceress, and a slew of other names of that nature, by those who knew my place of residence and the craft I practiced inside. I frightened away small children, whose mothers warned them against me. I preferred it that way, anyway. I didn't want to be bothered. I didn't care what they chose to call me so long as they left me alone.

The older children, however, were not as intimidated by me. If they were bored or looking to impress their friends, they would throw stones at me as I passed and scream and curse at me, telling me I should return to Hell where I belonged. I entertained thoughts of my curses working at last against them, imagined taking their fates into my own hands and killing them myself, but I never acted upon my fantasies. Somehow, killing seemed too far outside my realm, and if I had learned anything from my useless spell casting, it was this; human life, no matter who it is or what sort of vermin they are, is always valuable.

* * *

My story begins on a night in midwinter, when I was too brave and too stupid. I ventured out across the city in pursuit of new pockets to pick and stumbled across a group of men outside a bar, their speech slurred and their gaits staggering. They smelled of strong liquor. I watched them for a while to ensure they really were drunk, and took my chance when I witnessed one of the men pull out his coin purse and replace it in his left jacket pocket. That was all I needed, was a location.

I crossed the street like I was in a hurry, looking down at the hem of my dress and hunching over as though I were very cold and eager to return home – I was in a finer part of Paris, and I could very well have been the daughter of a rich man with my cloak. I always try to put myself together before I go out on raids (I call them raids, even though they are only short excursions for pocket change) so I don't look like a street urchin. People are much more likely to trust a put-together young woman than a disheveled ragamuffin.

I pretended to accidentally run into him. I let out a yelp, one I had practiced countless times to find the perfect tone that would elicit pity, and staggered backwards a couple of steps as though I had been startled by the blow and fell backwards to the ground. As I expected, he began to immediately apologize and offered me a hand to help me up, which I took. He pulled me to my feet and I took the opportunity of his distraction as he tried to brush off my cloak for me to reach into his pocket and slide the coin purse from it and into a pouch strapped to my belt.

"I'm so sorry, Monsieur," I said as many times as I felt was necessary. "I wasn't watching where I was going! I'm so sorry!"

Unfortunately, the man was not as drunk as I had previously thought, and more than clever enough to take note that his pocket, which had once been heavy with coins, was considerably lighter. As I turned to leave, he snatched my wrist furiously, and the apologetic man who had helped me to my feet and brushed snow off my cloak turned into a frightening man indeed, reminding me of my father. It made me shudder.

"You damned filthy thief!" he snarled, yanking my arm so I stumbled backwards closer to him. He slapped me so hard the world spun. "Who the hell do you think you're messing with?! Insolent girl!" Another blow to the head. The world flickered for a moment.

I've always taken beatings without resisting, but this man was different. Others will hit me a few times, kick me once or twice, to get their point across, but this man; he didn't stop. He threw me down and didn't cease brutalizing me, kicking and punching, slapping and thrusting me against the side of the pub. I knew I was in serious trouble. A couple of kicks, a few hits, I could handle, but not this ruthless beating.

I ran for it. He yanked me back up to my feet and instead of staying still and waiting for his next punch, I wrenched myself from his grasp and took my chance to run. I felt victorious for an instant; I had escaped and his money was still on my belt, pounding against my thigh with every step as I ran, but I heard heavy footfalls behind me and realized he was pursuing me.

I panicked and did what I've never done; I sought out a crowd. I hate being around countless other people, but I was blindly, wildly, throwing myself into a scenario in which my pursuer would have to work very hard if he wished to find me, and slinking through alleys was not going to do that for me.

Working against a crowd is very similar to swimming against a monstrous current; it does not work. I was swept away, forced to move with them, unable to resist and terrified to get out should the man hunting me see my fleeing figure. I allowed myself to be led to the _Opera Populaire_, the massive opera house which has been advertising a new production of _Hannibal_ for a good month and a half. They even tacked a poster to the side of my chapel, which I took care of in due fashion. I did not need some painting of a _prima donna_ in extravagant costume on the side of my sanctuary.

Once I was within twenty feet of the opera house's ornate front doors, I felt safe to finally throw myself out of the current of people, certain I had lost the man I had stolen from. How very wrong I was. I had not been free of the crowd for thirty seconds when that same brutal hand had grasped my wrist, covered my mouth so I could not scream, and yanked me into an alley behind the opera house. He threw me to the ground and kept me pinned there, wrestling something out of his pocket and showing it to me.

I watched in mute horror as the blade of the knife glistened in the hazy light cast from the one visible streetlamp at the alley's entrance.

"You think you can steal from me and not pay for it?" the man snarled. His breath was thick with the scent of alcohol. I very nearly vomited. He spat in my face and growled some of the worst profanities at me, and once I was shaking with both anger and terror, he pressed the blade against my right cheek. "And now," he breathed with obvious, sick delight. "You pay for your crimes."

I do not scream. I never whimper. I am too used to the physical pain of beatings, too numb. But I knew he was about to mutilate me, knew he was about to murder me, and the smallest of cries escaped my lips, a pitiable sound of fear.

The knife bit into my cheek, digging into my skin with nauseating, wet, fleshy noises as he drug it in a line, long and deep. I opened my mouth and screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

All I could see was red and black and blood and agony and pain and fear swirling in a chaotic array before my eyes, a thin curtain for me to look upon as the knife bit into my left eyebrow. I begged for him to stop, please stop, stop or kill me, kill me, kill me, to end it, for surely this was considerably greater pain than death. He only laughed.

Crimson anguish, black despair, scarlet terror, and then nothing.

* * *

I did not wake up in that alley. I did not even wake up outside. My face felt like it had taken a hit straight from Hell and my body was so sore I was half sure if I moved I would fall apart. I opened my eyes and groaned softly, unable to suppress the sound.

I was lying awkwardly in a bed, or something that resembled a bed. It was more similar to a golden, elliptical basin, maybe even once a flamboyant boat. A swan's graceful neck and head extended out of the front end, and this bed was lined with black and red blankets of velvet and satin.

It was still very dark to my eyes, and I thought I must have been in some dimly lit place at first, but I slowly began to make out flickering candles through a black drape and realized I was surrounded by a curtain. Oh, god, it hurt to move, but I did. My muscles screamed at me in protest as I shoved myself into a sitting position and caught sight of a thick golden rope and tassel. I reached up and pulled on it. The curtain lifted.

Once I had wiped blood dribbling into my eyes, from the cut above my left eyebrow, away, my breath was very literally taken away by the room I was inside. An elaborate setup lit entirely by candlelight; countless candelabras everywhere, even extending out of the water of a glassy lake which the room dissolved into, covered by a layer of swirling mists. There were strange items and artifacts everywhere; curtained oblong shapes rested against the walls and I saw mirrors glistening inside the spaces where the cloths briefly disconnected.

Beautiful drawings papered the walls, most of them appearing to be of the same person, a girl who could have been my age or younger with a mane of wildly thick, curly brown hair. It seemed that a different technique had been used to create each picture. I was amazed by the detail. A table with a single chair before it, upon which a red cloak was draped, sat some ten feet to my left, and I crept over to examine it. Upon the table was a setup that displayed a miniature stage, depicting a grassy wonderland bathed in twilight as a backdrop. At center stage was a small wax figure with long brown hair and a beautiful snowy white dress. I pursed my lips while examining it and gasped at the pain that accompanied even that small motion.

Slowly my awe melted into alarm. Where was this wonderland I had found myself inside? For what purpose had I been brought here? And, most importantly, who was it who had transported me to this dark, candlelit room? And how was I to fight them off when agony shot through my body every time I tried to move?

"So you've awoken."

The voice was deep and soulful, vastly different from that of the man who had brutalized me outside the pub and mutilated my face in the alley. It accompanied the shifting shadows in the corner of my eye, and I turned to face the unknown man who had taken me. How I had not noticed the organ upon my sweeping glances across the room, I will never know, but it was the man, the figure who stood up from the seat before the magnificent instrument, who struck me breathless for the second time in three minutes.

He was so very unlike the man from the alley that I wanted to cry with relief. As a matter of fact, he was very unlike any man I had ever seen. He was tall and slender. His legs were long, a fact accentuated by his black trousers, and his form lithe. He wore a white shirt, ruffled on the edges that crossed beneath his chest. The sleeves were loose. I had never seen someone on the street wearing an outfit quite like that before.

And I caught sight of his face. With that, my defenses melted for a brief moment. He had raven-black hair slicked back out and away from his face, green eyes that were deep and yearning, almost mournful. His lips – oh, lord, his lips – were full, the top of his mouth shaped like a perfectly arched arrow's bow. And most noticeable, most haunting, was the white mask covering the right half of his face.

I was at once intrigued, infatuated, but my suspicious nature did not allow me to keep my guard down for longer than a few moments. I recoiled instinctually, toppling backwards and losing my balance. I knocked into a candelabra and a few white candles went toppling into the lake. The impact I felt when I hit the ground sent jolts of agony erupting throughout my entire right side, a supernova of pain exploding in my every muscle. "Who are you?!" I demanded as I tried to hold back tears of suffering. My right cheek burned with every word, with each slightest movement of my jaw. Yet more blood dripped down into my eyes. "Why have you brought me here?!"

He approached me slowly; his each footstep echoed. I was powerless to do anything but curl in on myself, wiping blood out of my eyes and praying to a God I had abandoned the moment my mother's life ended, begging him silently to take me back, to protect me from whatever was coming, and if I died to accept me into Heaven, to let me see my mother because if You exist she is surely there with You, that I was sorry, so sorry, for everything: the black magic, the theft, the lies, the deceit…

I squeezed my eyes shut, as though that would make my terror dissolve, even make my reality vanish, but I could still hear the footsteps growing closer and I could still feel the pain everywhere. _Dear God, will I still even be alive in an hour_?

A gentle hand cupped my chin. I flinched and braced myself. I don't know what I was expecting. Another horrendous beating? Unbearable and unwanted advances? A blow to the head, a superfluous kiss, anything that would cause me pain or yet more internal torment that could ruin me before my death?

Something cold and damp that smelled of crisp alcohol was pressed against my cheek, stinging it as though my face had erupted into fire, and I whimpered and shrunk away from the pain. A tear finally escaped from my eye, falling to the floor. Another followed, dotting the back of my hand. I looked up unto the eyes of the man from the shadows, the white mask pale and ghostly against his face. He had knelt on one knee next to me, the hand that had cupped my chin still outstretched. His expression was one of pity as he looked at me, his gaze on my cheek and my eyebrow. In his other hand was the cloth that had stung me so fiercely. Next to his knee was a bowl with a thin pool from which the same scent as the cloth wafted.

I stared at him in shock. He was _helping_ me. There was no ill will in his expression. He was not looking to harm me; he was even cleaning out the incisions bestowed upon by the man in the alley.

He reached for my face again and took my chin. "Stay still," he ordered softly. I shuddered. His voice was so hollow, so empty. This man didn't even seem human to me. I gritted my teeth to keep from whimpering again as he pressed the cloth once more to my cheek. I saw the corner of his lips twitching as though he was amused.

"_Pitiful child,_

_You need not fear me._

_Look upon your savior_."

I listened to his voice, a haunting and mellow tremor to his lyrics, and shuddered.

The alcohol seeping into the open flesh on my cheek burned at first, but slowly the pain softened and dissolved and the cloth against my cheek, which had once smarted something fierce, became more like a cold compress. He pulled it away from my cheek and I sighed in relief to have one part of me that was no longer in pain, at least.

The man repositioned the cloth in his hand and dipped it into the bowl to douse it anew and pressed it to my eyebrow. I could not restrain myself from letting out a slight moan that time. The cut there was doubtlessly very deep. I tried to ignore the pain and ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek on the right side of my mouth, confirming, thankfully, that the man had not cut so deep into my cheek that he had shoved the blade straight through it. The flesh on the inside of my mouth was unharmed.

When the searing pain over my eye had turned into no more than a dull throbbing, compliments of the alcohol's cleansing properties, the man removed the cloth from my face and set it inside the bowl. I watched the blood blossom over the cloth and bit my lip.

The man stood and picked up the bowl, turning away from me. "That should do for now."

"Thank you," I whispered. It was all I could choke out of my lungs. I shivered and looked around, trying to ease some of the uncomfortable tension hanging in the air around us and my gaze fell upon the lake. I remembered the candles as they toppled into it, disappearing beneath the glassy surface of the water. "Do you want me to get the candles?" I asked quietly.

He chuckled as he set the bowl down on the table next to his miniature stage. "No. I have many others."

I shifted into a position more comfortable than the one I was in and slowly stood up. I was shocked that my knees didn't buckle. "Why… why did you rescue me from that man?" I finally asked.

He threw me a glance. "A man like that does not deserve to live," he replied easily. "Brutalizing a girl the way he was. I regret that I did not arrive before he ruined your face with his knife."

I breathed in sharply. "You mean you killed him?" I whispered, somewhat horrified, but more ecstatic than anything. A part of me believed what this ghostly man said; the man from the alley did not deserve to live.

"Of course."

I shut my eyes and let out a breath I had only been vaguely aware of holding. I dwelled upon his words; he had said the man had ruined my face. I knew, of course, there were cuts on my face, but _ruined_ was a very strong word.

Suddenly sick to my stomach, I staggered over to one of the curtained mirrors and pulled the drape off of it, beholding my face. At first I saw nothing unordinary. My eyes remained green and my wavy brown hair was mussed but not quite tangled, as it had not gotten the chance to weave itself into knots yet. But my mind acknowledged in my reflection the two ugly red gashes on my face; a hideous line on my cheek beginning below my eye and ending about half an inch away from the corner of my lips. A thick and jagged gash ran slantways through my eyebrow, extending from my forehead to the corner of my eye.

I clasped a hand to my mouth to muffle the sound of my horrified cry and dropped to the floor, breaking down. I had once been beautiful. That sounds so very horrible, but I knew it was true. I had been pretty, but now my face had been marred by these horrible cuts, lines that would turn into ugly puckered white scars. Who could ever love me, accept me, when my face was just as the man had said? Ruined.

I watched the mirror, watched as the reflection of the man in the mask crossed the room, until he crossed out of the mirror's line of sight and passed by my side, gathering the curtain and throwing it back over the mirror, cutting off my view of my face. He turned and looked down at me as I shook and cried. I just wasn't able to hold it in. My face, my sorry excuse for a life, was all ruined. Where could I go now? How could I make a living? Could I even continue to live when I knew there was no life for me?

"What is your name?"

The question he asked seemed so simple, but I had a difficult time replying. I don't particularly like my name. It is an old Turkish name, even though my family was primarily British and German, the name of a sultan in the 1500s. Primarily a male name, which I have always resented. I have never met, never even heard of, another female with my name. "Selim," I replied thickly.

"Selim," he repeated once. I shuddered. "The world has been cruel to you also. If you wish it, you may remain here. Here is safe from others."

I imagined it. Staying in this candlelit room. Examining the drawings plastering the walls more closely. Living here, in this place that ended in a lake and showed no connection to the world outside. What other option did I have left? It was this or return to the world and all its scorn.

My decision was obvious in my voice when I next spoke, strong and clear. "And your name?" I asked, looking up at this man, this savior of mine.

He smirked and looked down into my eyes. "Erik."

* * *

**And so the story begins! This is a really long first chapter and it's weird writing the Phantom. I wasn't nearly as cognizant of the fact that he barely speaks in the movie watching it as I am now, trying to write lines for him. In character, I hope? And what are your thoughts on Selim? Oh, and the lyric thing I did – that was to the tune of "Wandering Child," the song the Phantom beckons Christine with inside the cemetery at her father's shrine. Did you like it? I'll be doing more of those, trying to create my own lyrics to match my story and altering others for my purposes.**

**So, drop me a line if you want to see this continued! I'm pretty dang excited about it!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Phantom, out!**


	2. Calamity, Catastrophe

**And we're back with chapter 2! Thank you for reading this far, and to those who reviewed my chapter one, I love you so much right now! Hopefully the story moves smoothly. I like writing a lot of description, don't I? I noticed that in the last chapter… but I thought it went along with the atmosphere, so I kept it the way it was. More lyrics in this chapter! That may or may not be a good thing, depending on how you like them.**

**Anyway, enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own the _Phantom_! If I owned it do you think I'd be sitting here writing fanfictions for it?!**

* * *

I didn't like the mask I wore. It felt wrong. It felt like a lie. Too long had my life centered around lies, and this mask covering a decent portion of my face felt like a horrible sin.

Erik was a master. A master at everything. His voice sent chills up my spine, his music haunted me long after he had struck the final chords, his drawings enchanted me, and the delicate craftsmanship he used to create wax figurines and stage different scenes from the opera house's upcoming production of _Hannibal_ was nothing short of incredible. Everything he did, I paid the closest attention to and was utterly amazed by.

I learned that the room I had woken up in was part of Erik's home, located in the recesses of the _Opera Populaire_, and that in order to leave and to reach it one had to navigate a small boat through the damp tunnels of the catacombs. His home consisted, I discovered, of several smaller rooms; the organ, a piano I hadn't noticed upon my first examination of the room, and his miniature stage, as well as a majority of the candelabras, were located in the central segment; hidden behind curtains were smaller alcoves. One was his bedroom – the room I had awoken in – another a very little used kitchen of sorts, and others were filled with various projects he was apparently in the midst of; drawings and designs and other artistic creations. There were very few unfilled alcoves, and one of them I took for my own; the smallest one, which was closest in proximity to Erik's own room.

He called himself the phantom of the opera.

He would disappear for hours at a time and return looking smug, almost content, before seating himself at the organ and slaving away before it, only occasionally placing his hands to the keys and playing a few lines of chilling melody before he would take a quill to paper and map out complex scores of music. He was writing an opera, he told me when I asked, and refused to play me any piece from his score in its completed form. If he was in a good mood he would placate me with pieces by Mozart or some other famous composer, and if he wasn't he would chase me away, yelling at me about leaving him to let him work in peace.

I took the opportunities presented by his absence to satisfy my very human needs; food and bathing, primarily, and sometimes sleep. I preferred to be awake when he was here and working on his music, so I could listen for the sounds of the organ. I very dearly wanted to see where he went every day, sometimes twice a day, but Erik had not yet allowed me to venture out.

My third day in this place, when my muscles had begun to feel normal again, my cuts had scabbed over, and the bruises all over my body had begun to heal, Erik returned from one of his outings with clothes for me. I hadn't given any thought to clothing before that – not given much thought to anything, really. I could barely move the second day without groaning, and the things my mind was occupied with were not so mundane as things like clothing.

The clothes were not my usual black; one was a green dress, with a button missing – though I could easily fix that. Another was an ornate pink dress I would have never dreamed of wearing before. Another was red, and the last was white. They all had a flair to and something slightly wrong with them – a button missing, a small tear, stitching unraveled – that gave me the impression he had taken them from the opera house's costume supplies, most likely from a long-forgotten mending pile.

I made a bed out of two pillows, several layers of cloth, and blankets for the first few nights and slept quite comfortably cocooned in them, and Erik amazed me further by arriving back at the lair one day pulling another boat, a simple wooden basin, behind him. I helped him pull it out of the water and place it in the alcove I had claimed for myself, arranging the blankets I had been sleeping with inside of it in an attempt to recreate the setup he had in his bedroom. It wasn't nearly as impressive, but very comfortable.

Today he bestowed upon me a mask, similar to his, but which would cover a larger expanse of my face. It ran slantways from the right side of my chin, across my nose, and past the corner of my left eye in a way that would cover the scars on my cheek and over my eyebrow, which had healed in the last week and a half to the puckered white lines I had anticipated. While they looked much better than the angry red cuts they once had been, I could still barely stand to look at my reflection.

I could not fathom why he had made a mask for me. Either he pitied me and thought it would do my soul some good to cover the marks etched forever into my skin, or he couldn't stand to look at the scars on my face himself. I found myself praying more and more that it was the former of my suspicions. I assumed the mask he wore was to hide some disfigurement of his own, based purely on the fact that, since the half of his face not covered was so beautiful, he must have wanted to conceal that the other side was not so enchanting. I couldn't know for sure, though, as he never let me see him unmasked.

I pushed aside a curtain draped over one of the several mirrors hidden on one side of the vast central room of his – our – home, and examined the way I looked wearing the mask. I was like a phantom myself, and while I loved all the symbolic resonances that could be associated with it, the mask still felt like a lie. It would have looked much more haunting if I had been clad in black like I usually preferred, but today I wore the green dress, which did admittedly make my emerald eyes strangely piercing.

I let the curtain fall back over the mirror and turned away from it, fingering the mask as I stepped down from one of the many platforms Erik's lair consisted of, several of them located before his wall of covered mirrors. I felt Erik's eyes on me and shivered. He had been sitting at his table with the miniature stage, absorbed in writing some sort of note. He stood and crossed the floor in a few strides. "What do you think?" he asked.

I froze when he came towards me and began to shift my weight from one leg to the other uncomfortably. I didn't dislike the mask, per say, but I wasn't particularly fond of it, either. "It's… it's different," I finally replied. The difficulty of responding was irritating.

He closed the distance between us. He was wearing his black cape, black jacket, and black gloves. Why I noticed that at this moment is beyond my comprehension. I was highly cognizant of everything he wore, said, did, played…

He reached for my face and began to turn it to the side, examining the way it fitted on me. "How does it feel?" he inquired. "I was forced to estimate the dimensions."

"It's fine," I mumbled, shrinking away from him and telling my heart to stop pounding, for god's sake! All he'd done was _touch_ me and I was having a near heart attack.

I was not sure if he was dejected or amused or _what_ by my very obvious embarrassment – I was blushing from ear to ear, though only one of my cheeks was visible when I was wearing the mask – but he went back to the table and removed the bronze spoon of wax from its place suspended over a candle and dripped it over the seal of an envelope inside of which I could see a note with his slanting script. He replaced the spoon and grasped a heavy seal stamp, pressing it over the circle of wax on the envelope. When he lifted it, the wax had molded into a nightmarish skull with a sneering face. I was both intrigued and somewhat repulsed.

Erik turned back to me. "Come," he said. "It seems two fools have just taken over management of my theater. We must welcome them in proper fashion."

He said _we_. He was placing us together. Why was my heart beating so hard, so fast?

He went down to the edge of the water, next to the place he had tied the boat last time he returned from one of his mysterious errands. He turned and looked back at me. I had remained where I was, frozen as I understood that he was allowing me out. He was going to take me to the surface with him. I was frightened by the very prospect. There were people on the surface. People were awful; I couldn't trust them.

Erik extended a hand and beckoned to me. "Quickly," he instructed. "There are plans that must be put into motion before the afternoon draws to a close."

I took a deep, centering breath and scolded myself for being such a wimp. Gathering up my courage, I went up to the water's edge beside him. He offered me his hand when I was clambering into the boat, which I was glad for; my clumsiness would surely have sent me toppling into the water without his steadying grasp. I lowered myself down onto the wooden seat, shuddering as I caught sight of my reflection; the white mask made me look like half a skeleton. Erik untied and gracefully climbed into the boat before he took hold of the pole I had watched him use countless times as he departed on his unknown outings to propel the watercraft. Silently, he dipped it into the water and we began to glide.

After a few minutes without conversation, the only sound that of the water lapping against the side of the boat and the stone walls, Erik began to sing under his breath as though chanting,

"_I am your Angel of music._

_Come to me, Angel of music_…"

He seemed to be in another place, thinking about something far outside the catacombs. But even so, I believed the words he sang. He was an Angel of Music. That I had no doubt of.

The journey on the boat lasted only a few minutes more, and we came to a stop when the water ended in stone. I scrambled out of the boat, grateful to be able to plant my feet on solid ground. I've never much enjoyed traveling by water. Erik snatched a torch out of its holder on the wall and held it out before him, beckoning to me as an indicator that I should follow him.

The corridor was dark and our footsteps echoed. I was too nervous to speak.

A black figure rose before us as we continued down the hall and I recognized a horse's form. I grinned and rushed past Erik for the creature. I've always been fond of horses; my mother would tease me all the time that I could go into the wild and live with them. He was a gorgeous black Friesian, and when I reached my hand out he pressed his muzzle into my palm.

Erik came up beside me. "Do you ride?" he asked, watching as I pressed my cheek against the horse's jowl.

I nodded. "Oh, yes. It's been quite a while, of course… a few years. Not since my mother died—" I stopped at once as a wave of grief ripped through me. I bit my lip and stepped away from the horse. "He is beautiful," I whispered, wiping tears out of my eyes.

"His name is Caesar," Erik informed me, guiding me past the horse as we continued up the corridor. "He's a mild-tempered creature."

I had noticed. Caesar had a sweet disposition. I recovered from the small episode of anguish that had struck me back at the horse over my mother's death, scolding myself for still crying over something that had happened three, almost four, years ago.

We turned a sharp corner, down a narrow hallway that I would have overlooked had he not suddenly seemed to disappear into the wall. A minute more of walking in silence and we reached a door. He pushed it open and slipped through it, and I followed.

I cringed at once from the noise. A female voice, very loud and so high I thought that somewhere glass must be shattering from the sheer vibration the voice caused, was singing _a capella_ into the empty theater auditorium. The voice was not exactly unpleasant to listen to, but it was certainly no picnic. I clasped my hands over my ears and still heard every word.

"_This trophy from our saviors_

_From our saviors_

_From the enslaving force of Rome_!"

I cringed when she hit the last note. It sounded like it would hurt to even attempt to sing. A chorus followed the voice, much easier to listen to.

"_With feasting and dancing and song_

_Tonight in celebration…"_

I was pulled out of my trance when I felt a gloved hand grip my wrist. I let out an involuntary gasp and looked up at Erik, who pressed a finger to his lips by way of telling me to be quiet. I nodded, blushing, and glanced around. We were standing on a precariously arranged walkway in the rafters, which was above even the intricate system of bridges over the stage with levers and pulleys that controlled the curtains and other elaborate stage props. Standing next to one of the pulleys, taking a swig from a bottle of alcohol, was a rather gruff, scruffy-looking man with scraggly hair.

Erik pulled me along the walkway in the rafters until he swung down onto a part of the bridge over the stage that was outside of the man's line of sight. I swung down after him and we stood there, looking down upon the rehearsal. My chest began to hurt from the envy I was experiencing, watching every person on and offstage – we were in a place that could easily see both. Onstage was a wild array of people in costumes of blue and red and gold that flashed and glistened, blinding me when the light caught their metal armor and bangles just right. They were all silent, save for one man in the center of them all, an unattractive man with wild blue face paint and rather overweight. His voice was nasally.

"_Sad to return to find the land we love_

_Threatened once more by Roma's far-reaching grasp_!"

All at once the music stopped and three men, not in costume but dressed professionally, crossed the stage, halting the rehearsal. The conductor was none too pleased. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!" he protested, moving from his place at the head of the orchestra pit and clambering onto the stage to make his complaint better heard.

I glanced at Erik and saw he was entirely focused on something below us, his gaze towards the chorus standing offstage. I tried to find who it was he was staring so fervently at, but it was impossible to tell. My mind half-occupied with that, I attempted to listen to the conversation taking place below. One of the men who had interrupted announced his retirement and introduced the new owners of the _Opera Populaire,_ the two men beside him, Monsieurs Firmin and Andre. Monsieur Firmin introduced the opera house's new patron, and a young man with a mop of sandy hair and wearing the clothes of a nobleman came from offstage, introduced as the Vicomte de Chagny.

Next to me, Erik made a sound highly akin to a low, throaty growl.

Two of the chorus girls, a blonde with doe eyes and a brunette with curly hair, seemed rather taken aback by the sight of the Vicomte. My eyes widened as I realized the brunette was the girl Erik had so many drawings of back at our lair.

So then, _she_ was what had his undivided attention.

Pleasantries were exchanged and introductions made. I caught the name _Carlotta_, which I remembered seeing on the poster advertising _Hannibal_ that I had ripped off the side of my chapel.

Rehearsals began again, and I watched the brunette girl as Erik was. I glanced at his expression every few moments; each time I saw in his face longing that was almost painful to look at. The new owners followed behind a woman called Madame Giry, who was apparently the head of the ballet, watching the chorus girls dance. Monsieur Firmin took interest in both the blonde and the brunette. The blonde was Meg Giry, the Madame's own daughter, and the brunette Erik watched with such yearning Christine Daae, the daughter of, evidently, a famous and deceased Swedish violinist.

She was beautiful. I could see how Erik would be so infatuated with her. Her face was perfect. Not like mine, I noted with a pang of sorrow.

The entire cast began to sing and an elephant was rolled out onto center stage. I deducted that what I was witnessing was the climax of the opera. Carlotta's voice overpowered the others, painfully high. She seemed to be screaming the words at the new owners.

"_Hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes_!"

The minute the music ended, she threw an absolute fit. "All day! All they want is the dancing!"

I could sense a tempest coming from her, but the new theater owners, evidently, did not. They discussed something I could not hear, and Carlotta stormed up to them and proceeded to inform them that she would not be singing during the night's performance.

They ran after her across the stage, begging her to come back. I rolled my eyes. Carlotta was making it very apparent that it was _she_ who was running the theater, not them. Erik, for some reason, though, seemed pleased to see her making her leave, and even smirked when one of the new owners mentioned something about an aria for her character in act three.

I almost jumped out of my skin when Erik whispered into my ear, "I have something I need you to do for me."

My heart was racing and blood was roaring in my ears. Oh, god, my entire face must have been red. Certainly he could see me blushing, even with the mask I wore. "What is it?" I breathed back, rather disconnectedly. Not only had he scared the hell out of me, his breath on my ear had sent a shudder down my spine that I could not say I didn't enjoy.

"That man at the pulley for the backdrop is in my way at present. Joseph Buquet. A troubling man indeed. Lure him away from his post. A minute or two will do, but only when I tell you to."

I got the most peculiar, almost sick sensation in my stomach when I thought about doing as he asked me, as if an unseen force were trying to warn me that something dreadful was about to occur, but I nodded in assent. Trying to ignore the feeling, I turned my attention back to Carlotta. "I have not my costume for act three because _somebody_ not finish it! And, I hate my hat!" It took a considerable amount of concentration to understand her; she had a very thick Italian accent. She said something else, a little softer, and then smiled. "If my managers command."

_What a spoiled brat_, I thought fleetingly.

Erik's lips very close to my ear again, sending another shiver down my spine. "Go now," he ordered, his voice eager, almost excited.

I had no idea what exactly I was to do, but I set off anyway, messing with my hair so it covered a good portion of the masked side of my face. Oh, god, what was I doing?

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the man's – Buquet's – line of sight. "Monsieur," I called softly.

The moment he turned to me, I jolted and made a run for it, away from the direction I had come. He followed me, which I was glad for at first, since I was supposed to lure him away, keep him distracted. Now I'd gotten his attention; but what was I to do if he caught up to me?

I swallowed hard and turned at a corner of the wooden walkway over the stage. Buquet was calling after me, even laughing a little, as though he thought he was pursuing a seductive young woman. I tried to drown him out by listening to Carlotta sing. Her voice irritated me somewhat, but it was better than hearing Buquet's playful taunts.

"_Remember me once in a while;_

_Please promise me you'll try!_

_When you find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_—!"

I almost stopped short when I heard the sound of grinding wooden wheels and a horrible crash, followed immediately by Carlotta's high pitched scream of anger and pain. I glanced over my shoulder and downward to see that a large piece of the scenery had collapsed on top of her, and she was screeching at anyone who could hear. "I hate you! Lift it up!"

Buquet swore colorfully and turned around, racing back for his post. I almost collapsed on the spot, breathing heavily. I was shaking something terrible now, which I couldn't quite understand; when I had been in the middle of luring him away, I had been fine. Why was I panicking now?

"Selim," Erik's sharp voice came from my left, and I let out a little squeal of shock. Luckily, the sound was lost by Carlotta's continued, furious screams. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me along the walkway until we had reached a different corner of it, and he hoisted himself up onto the wooden platform balancing precariously on the rafters above us. Trying not to think about my imminent death should I fall, I jumped for the platform and got a hold on it with my arms, clawing my way onto it so I could pull myself up entirely. Erik grabbed my left arm and yanked me up, not very gently. I grimaced and bit my lip to keep from making a sound of pain.

I decided that I would have to work on getting less clumsy.

I couldn't see the stage at the moment; I could only listen.

"Buquet! For God's sake, man, what is going on up there?!"

I heard Buquet yell back, "Please, Monsieur, don't look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post! Please, Monsieur, there's no one there! Or if there is, well then... it must be a ghost!" I could hear the glee in his voice when he spoke the last part.

Erik pulled the envelope he had finished preparing before we'd departed out of his pocket and dropped it over the edge of our platform. I craned my neck so I could look over the platform, watching the letter flutter to the ground. Madame Giry caught sight of it and picked it up from its spot on the floor.

"Signora, these things do happen," one of the new owners pleaded with the prima donna.

She would have none of it. "For the past three years, _these things do happen_. And did you stop them from happening? No! And you two! You are as bad as him! _These things do happen_. UGH! Until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen! Ubaldo! Andiamo!" she yelled as she stormed away. "Bring my doggy and my boxy!"

A spoiled brat indeed.

The overweight man with the nasally voice added dissatisfiedly, "Amateurs!"

"Now you see, bye-bye! I'm really leaving!" Carlotta's voice grew fainter.

I glanced up at Erik. He was smiling.

I knew he had dropped the set. Who else? I wondered what on earth his goal could be. Sabotage? Some grudge against the spoiled Italian soprano? What?

The former owner departed forthwith, leaving the two new owners to panic. "Signora Giudecceli… she will be coming back, won't she?" one of them asked nervously.

"You think so, Monsieur?" Madame Giry asked, stepping forward. The letter, opened, was in her hand. "I have a message, Sir, from the Opera Ghost."

Oh, this I simply had to hear.

"God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" the more assertive of the new owners complained.

Madame Giry paid him no mind. "He welcomes you to his opera house—"

"_His_ opera house?!"

Next to me, Erik chuckled softly, deeply amused. I got the impression that this truly _was_ his opera house. Somehow, he seemed to have everything running according to his agenda.

"—And he commands that you continue to leave box five empty for his use," Madame Giry continued, pointing her cane at the theater box closest to the stage on the left side of the auditorium. "And reminds you that his salary is due."

"His _salary_?!" the new owner exclaimed.

"Well, Monsieur Lafevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month," Madame Giry informed him casually, swinging her long braid over her shoulder.

My mouth dropped open. That was more money than I had seen in three years. Erik made more in a month than I had over the course of three years – and he wasn't even really doing anything for them. Maybe it was merely a bribe to keep him from bringing calamity upon the _Opera Populaire_.

_"Twenty thousand_ francs?!" the owner asked, snatching the letter away from Madame Giry.

She cast him a condescending glance, almost mischievous. "Perhaps you can afford more… with the Vicomte as your patron?" she inquired, stepping away from the two men.

I kind of liked her sass.

The man tore the letter in half as he complained about a number of things; the fact that he was supposed to announce the Vicomte as their patron that evening, that they would have to cancel the performance, that they had no star as _La Carlotta_ had no understudy, that a full house would have to be refunded – and then Madame Giry spoke again. "Christine Daae could sing it, Sir," she suggested, indicating the girl with the wild mane of curly brown hair.

"What, a chorus girl? Don't be silly!" the man scoffed.

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher," Madame Giry pressed. I knew from her tone that she was not going to let this matter drop. Erik's entire demeanor swelled with pride.

"Who?"

Christine lowered her gaze and said, almost too softly for me to hear, "I don't know his name, Sir."

It all became very clear to me in that moment. Erik was obsessed with this girl, Christine Daae. I felt like such an idiot for not realizing that the instant I recognized her as the girl in all his drawings. He had been teaching her to sing and this entire setup had been all for this – ensuring her a place in the performance at the opera house tonight. He truly was a genius.

And he had used me.

Christine Daae began to sing, and I was almost floored by the purity, the innocence, the beauty and raw emotion, of her voice. Erik seemed to be in a state of extreme serenity. Finding myself unable to bear it, I navigated the walkway above the rafters until I came to the small door we had come from and slipped inside of it with Christine Daae's voice chasing after me.

"_If you ever find a moment,_

_Spare a thought for me_."

I shut the door, let out a ragged sigh, and slid to the ground, holding my head. Why did I feel so sick? Why was my chest aching?

I allowed myself a single sob and one tear to slide down my cheek, right over my scar.

* * *

**This was another really long chapter. I think Selim is going to sing in the next one, yay! I'm really excited for that. Anyway, what did you guys think? It's kind of obvious that Selim likes Erik, but what are your opinions on him? I'd really like to know if he's in character or not. Those 14 lines he spoke in the movie aren't giving me a whole lot to work with and I'm struggling a little with him.**

**Anyway, thanks very much for reading, I love you all, please review, and I'll see you in chapter 3!**

**Phantom, out!**


	3. Lost, Longing

**And we're back with Chapter 3. This is going rather quickly. In the last four days, I finished my senior paper, received three certificates of scholarship to 3 different colleges, took an AP Calculus final, updated two of my other fanfictions, and written this new chapter. I would like to thank you all for your encouraging reviews.**

**So, in this chapter, Selim's song is to the tune of "Angel of Music." I hope you enjoy it and tell me what you think.**

**Disclaimer: The **_**Phantom of the Opera**_** doesn't belong to me. (But he does belong with me…)**

* * *

"_We never said our love was evergreen_

_Or as unchanging as the sea,_

_But if you can still remember,_

_Stop and think of me_."

I still felt sick, but I ignored the sensation and listened to Christine's voice, grimacing. It was almost too perfect, too angelic. Erik was standing in front of me, his face turned upward and his eyes closed, drinking in every note that came from her mouth on the stage above us. We were in one of the many tunnels beneath the opera house, directly beneath the stage, and the clarity of the performance was unnerving. The music, Christine's song, echoed off the walls and reverberated throughout my body.

I sat on the ground against the cold stone wall with my legs curled into my chest, watching him. Erik was far away, in another place. I wished he would come back. It was cold in this tunnel, and my stomach was beginning to shift, complaining that it was hungry. I was beginning to miss my cloak, which was draped over a chair back in our lair.

"_Think of me;_

_Think of me waking, silent and resigned._

_Imagine me trying too hard_

_To put you from my mind_."

_I_ was trying to put _her_ from my mind; but it never ended. She just kept singing. Erik, however, was making no such attempts; he appeared to be in a state of euphoria, of ecstasy. I was almost afraid to even breathe, because that might distract him from listening to Christine's voice. He was obsessed with this girl, and I got the feeling that if I interrupted his enjoying her performance, I was going to see him truly angry for the first time.

"_There will never be a day when_

_I won't think of you_!"

The orchestra's volume increased and I let out the breath I had been holding, knowing that next came a musical bridge and Christine wouldn't sing for another minute at least. I satisfied my need for oxygen in that time and waited for her to stop singing once she had started again. I shut my eyes and thought about the sound of Erik's piano playing. I wanted dearly to play a piano – or any instrument at all – with suck skill.

"_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade;_

_They have their seasons, so do we._

_But please promise me that sometimes_

_You will think_…"

I listened as she vocalized a series of notes. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted her to stop so Erik would snap out of it and we could go home and I could listen as he sat down at his organ or his piano and played a few scores of music before he would immerse himself once again in the opera he'd been writing for years upon end.

"_Of me_!"

The last note. It seemed as though I'd been waiting forever. I sat, motionless, with my eyes still shut until orchestra faded and knew the aria – and act three – was finished. I began to ask Erik if we were going back as I opened my eyes, and halted midsentence. He wasn't standing in front of me anymore. He wasn't anywhere anymore.

I was alone.

I scrambled to my feet and looked around once, twice, five times, ten times. I half expected to suddenly see him lurking in the shadows, but he wasn't. He'd just left. And better yet, I had been relying on him to lead me back to the main tunnel, which if we followed would lead us to the boat. I had only just entered these tunnels for the first time today and I was vastly unfamiliar with them; the system beneath the opera house was a labyrinth and I had no idea how to reach the central tunnel on my own.

Maybe this was a test, I thought wildly. Erik could have been forcing me to do this on my own for my benefit. In the back of my mind, I knew that wasn't true, but the hope was all I had by that point.

No options other than to attempt making my way to the central tunnel myself, I looked right, took a deep breath, and headed in that direction. I took a few turns at random and found myself back where I started after about half an hour, which wasn't very encouraging. I went left the second time, praying that my new route would bear a more favorable result.

I'm guessing it took about an hour to find my way, at long last, to the central tunnel. The relief that came with seeing it very nearly floored me. I followed it to the place Caesar had been tied up, but the horse was gone. I had no idea what could have happened to him. A horse doesn't just untie itself and go trotting off through tunnels. Erik had just… moved him. Somewhere. Somewhere that remained a great unknown to me. Like everything else about Erik.

Now I was really starting to panic.

Not caring about the pounding of my footsteps against the stone that would echo off the walls, I broke into a sprint. I would be at the edge of the water in three minutes. I could only pray the boat – and Erik, even – would still be there. I had little faith in that, though. My stomach was twisting itself into horrible knots, but I ignored that unpleasant sensation.

A large black shape arose out of the darkness as I got closer to my destination, and I stumbled a little as I came to a stop at the edge of the water, gaining my balance just in time so I didn't go skidding into the underground lake. I turned around to meet the dark shape and got one of my questions answered immediately.

"Caesar," I sighed, not sure what I was feeling at that point, reaching my hand out and stroking his muzzle. I kept at that, staring back at the water. The boat was not there. I had been abandoned after all. I wished I could speak to the horse for just two minutes and find out what the hell was going on, but unfortunately, I am no horse whisperer.

Now I was faced with the horrifying question: What was I to do now? I could sit here and wait for Erik to come back with the boat, but who knew how long that would take. I could even attempt to swim the lake, but it was freezing and I might die of cold before I reached my destination. Not to mention I have never been much of a swimmer. I nearly drowned when I was seven after I fell into a lake at a park, and it took me a good four years to face my fears and learn to swim. So, I _can_ swim, but water still terrifies me sometimes. Incidentally, that's also why I don't much favor boats.

I let out a long, unsteady breath, patted Caesar's side a few times, and sank to the ground, my back against the frigid stone wall. I tore the mask off and stared at it, turning it over and over in my hands mindlessly. Instead of dwelling on where Erik was and what I was to do now, I began to concentrate on the _why_. Why had he left me here to fend for myself? Why did he abandon me in the tunnel beneath the stage?

Maybe I had done something wrong. Was I supposed to be completely mad over Christine's voice as well, or something? Damn it! God, he made me mad! What the hell had I done wrong, done to make him just up and leave me all alone with no way to get home? I was terrified and upset and just plain furious. And I had nothing to do but sit there, brooding and staring across the lake as Caesar nudged me with his nose and tried to get me to stand up and stroke him some more. Spoiled horse.

Damn, was it freezing. I had thought I couldn't miss my cloak any more than I was when sitting in that last tunnel listening to Christine's song, but evidently God was out to prove me wrong. I just hoped it didn't get any colder than this.

Eventually my alertness dulled and sleep began to tug at me, but I didn't want to succumb to it. I wanted to watch the lake for Erik and yell at him the moment he clambered out of the boat. Hell, I was angry enough to throw him into the lake.

But at a certain point, I couldn't fight against sleep any longer. As I drifted into the blackness that was creeping up around my vision, I could have almost sworn I heard Erik's voice, very faint, echoing off the walls of the tunnels and the surface of the water. He was singing some wonderful, haunting tune. Though, with the state of consciousness I was in, the song may very well have been only a dream.

"_Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world;_

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Let your soul take you where you long to be_!"

I think I was still hovering just out of sleep and had to listen very hard for the line that followed the last steady, wonderful note.

"_Only then can you belong to me_."

And how I wished that were true for him of me, I remember thinking before losing to sleep entirely.

* * *

When I woke up, I had a terrible ache in my lower back from sleeping sitting up against the rigid, freezing stone wall and my stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, trying to force itself to not be empty. My entire body was stiff with cold and the mask was still in my hands. I glanced immediately at the water's edge. The boat remained irritatingly absent.

I groaned, realizing that if I stayed here I was only going to get hungrier and colder and I might possibly even develop pneumonia in this freezing air. I stood up and Caesar began nudging me in the shoulders, whinnying softly. I guessed he was about as hungry as I was. I sighed and stroked his nose for a few minutes, feeling sorry for him, and even apologized under my breath when I turned and headed up the central tunnel.

I was going to have to head up to the surface. Horrific as that idea seemed to me, it was inevitable. Maybe there wouldn't be people around. I mean, they had a successful performance last night. They'd probably celebrated well past midnight, and celebrations meant enough hard liquor to fill a large pond. With any luck, most of them would be in bed nursing hangovers long into the morning.

Mask in hand, I recreated the route Erik and I had taken to get above the stage, slipping through the tunnel and mounting the countless stairs that lay in its recesses until I came to the door that led to the platforms above the rafters. Praying I wouldn't fall once I went out, I opened the door and went through it.

I shuddered when I looked out over the stage from the platform. _If I fall, I'm dead for sure_, I thought, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I was almost hyperventilating. Trying to calm myself down, I began to crawl along the rafter walkways until I was directly over the center of the stage. I looked down and waited for things to come into focus, as my vision had gone temporarily blurry from the fear of being up so high.

I'd never known I was afraid of heights until Erik showed me these walkways.

There were a few people milling about onstage, stagehands or people from the chorus, groggy and slow. One of them groaned and held his head. A few of the chorus girls were practicing one of their pieces, except for they were all drunk or half-drunk. I shook my head. Being drunk this early in the morning? Had they been partaking in the bottle all night long?

One of the girls fell into another and the rest came crashing down, knocking into each other, shrieking with delight and giggling hysterically. I sighed as I watched them. They were all very pretty, so naïve, and they had each other. I so very much wanted that.

I mean, all I had was a moody phantom who was obsessing over a soprano and writing an opera that I was beginning to doubt would ever be finished. Oh, and who abandoned me for no apparent reason.

That was the only company I kept.

I sighed and rested my chin in my palm, watching the girls as they laughed gleefully and pulled each other to their feet, only to be thrown off balance and go toppling over again. They all seemed so happy.

As I watched them, my longing manifested itself in song; a soft, simple melody.

"_I'm forced to hide in the rafters_

_Envying all whom I see._

_I know I'm outside their laughter_

_And they can't know me._

_My face is scarred,_

_My soul tormented._

_How could I join with them?_

_I wish just once_

_I could be like them._

_Playful, naïve, perfect_."

My voice was nowhere near as beautiful as Christine Daae's, and I am what a person would classify an alto, not a soprano, but I thought I had a nice voice nonetheless. I hadn't sung in quite a long time and my voice was somewhat dry, but the emptiness in my tone was unmistakable.

I watched the girls until they departed and the stage became empty. Thinking it safe, I inched along the walkway until I reached the platform above a corner of the bridge over the stage and climbed down off of it. I landed too hard on my left ankle, and I grimaced as I flexed it a couple of times. It wasn't sprained or anything that would prohibit me from walking. Only sore.

What to do now?

My stomach growled and twisted. Well, there was a place to start. Food. And maybe an apple I could bring back for Caesar. I still felt bad for that horse.

I crossed the bridge and swung myself down onto the stage. Lord, was it big. I looked out to the auditorium and my heart skipped a beat. So many seats, trained forward. I could only imagine what it would be like to be standing here when every single one of those chairs was filled, thousands of eyes watching me, expecting to be entertained. Terrifying.

I tore my eyes away from the auditorium and slipped backstage. I considered putting my mask on, but that would be like screaming that I didn't belong if anyone saw me. I held the mask at my side, trying to hide it in the folds of my dress and keeping my head down. I prayed no one would pass me, but if someone did I might just seem like a part of the crew.

I was so focused on looking the part that I failed to notice the person standing stationary in my path until I smacked into them. I recoiled away from them, trying to hide my face – or most of my face – behind my hair. "Sorry," I mumbled without looking at them. God, I hoped I was passing for some hung-over stagehand.

Judging from the way they snatched my wrist, I don't think I was. I gasped and instinctually looked up at them and found myself staring into the eyes of Madame Giry. Then I realized my mistake, because by lifting my head I had allowed her a glimpse of my terrible scars. Horrified by my stupidity, I wrenched my arm away from her and fumbled with the mask in my hand as I turned on my heel and began to flee, putting it on with too much force and hurting my nose in the process.

"Wait," Madame Giry called calmly. I was so shocked by her tone that I skidded to a halt. I had no earthly idea why. She wasn't pursuing me. But I stopped. "Where did you get that mask?" she asked. I heard footsteps. She was approaching me.

I backed away and looked into her face. I opened my mouth to reply, probably with something akin to _none of your business_, but I'll never know for sure because my voice caught in my throat and all I managed was a noise that sounded like a cross between a squeak and a croak.

She was right in front of me. I cringed.

She reached out slowly and pulled the mask away. My eyes widened and I made to snatch it away, but the motion was pointless. She handed it back to me and gently traced the scar on my cheek with one of her fingers. "You poor thing," she said sympathetically in a quiet voice. "Who did this to you?"

I was immobile. What _was_ she? Why wasn't she repulsed? I mean, it's _my_ face and _I_ was repulsed whenever I caught a glimpse of my reflection. "A… a man…" I got out unsteadily. "Alley… Erik saved…" I trailed off. Who knew what Erik would do to me if I betrayed his secrets?

She looked shocked. "Erik rescued you?" she said incredulously, now tracing the scar that ran across my eyebrow. "I never knew him to be the kind that takes in strays."

Her easy statement shocked me for a few reasons. Firstly, she knew who Erik was. Secondly, she seemed to _know_ him further than merely being aware of his name. She knew his personality, what he was like. And thirdly, she called me a stray. "What…?" I found myself unable to complete the question. I had too many specific questions I wanted answered and I couldn't decide which one needed to be asked first.

She shook her head and sighed. "That man…" she pursed her lips and scanned the scars on my face with her gaze. When I was sure we would just stand here for the rest of our lives, not speaking, just staring at each other in awkward silence, she smiled and took my hand. "Come with me, child. You are looking for a place to hide, no?"

Appalled, I nodded. My mouth was agape and I had a feeling the most idiotic expression in history was plastered across my face, but I let her pull me backstage. I didn't feel threatened by her offer or sense any malice in her voice. I was just… grateful. At least, for the time being, I had something to do, something to occupy my time, and even a possible way to have some of the questions on my ever-growing list of them answered.

Madame Giry marched me through the expanses of the backstage area and straight through to the dormitories for the performers and crew, regardless of who we passed. Most of the people out and about were exhibiting traits typical of those who are hung-over. Most of them paid us no mind, and the few who did notice us merely called out muffled greetings to the head of the ballet and went back to minding their own business. I got the feeling that Madame Giry rather intimidated them all.

"What is your name?" she asked as though it had just occurred to her when we mounted a flight of stairs.

"Selim," I replied huskily, still hating it.

"Here," she said when we stopped, at a door in the wing of what she informed me was the dormitory for the girls in the chorus. She opened it with a bronze key from her pocket and ushered me inside. I halted as soon as I had entered and looked around. It was a simple room with white walls, a bed on the wall opposite the door, and a very small round table in one corner with two chairs.

"My quarters," Madame Giry explained, shutting the door behind her and turning to face me. "You will be safe here."

I was wary of her promise. Erik had told me that his lair beneath the _Opera Populaire_ was safe from others – then, of course, he abandoned me in a tunnel. I had skewed ideas about _safe_ by now.

"Now, tell me, dear," Madame Giry placed a hand on my shoulder and I jolted. She smiled reassuringly and led me over to the small round table. I sat in one of the chairs and she sat opposite me. "How did you get those scars?"

I didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it in detail would make me remember all too clearly the fear and the pain as the knife bit into my skin and made me scream. I pursed my lips and remained silent.

Madame Giry sighed. "You said earlier that it was a man in the alley behind the opera house? Erik saved you?"

I nodded.

"Strange man," she muttered, drumming her fingers on the table. "First he claims he needs no companionship, then he pines over Christine, and now he's taken in…" she trailed off as she looked at me, evidently not wanting to voice what she had been thinking about me.

"A freak?" I whispered, fingering the scar on my cheek.

She shook her head. "I cannot explain," she said. "But you are, somehow… like him. The world has not been kind to you."

"You can say that again," I muttered, my eyes downcast. I put the mask on the table and stared at it, remembered the way my face had looked in my reflection off the water before Erik and I left the lair. "How do you… know who he is?" I asked.

She sighed. "I have known Erik for many years now. I brought him here, to this opera house, when I was about your age, still training to be a ballerina. He was… trapped, used by a gypsy troupe in a carnival they set up outside the opera house. They called him the Devil's Child and beat him for the entertainment of those who visited. I was there when Erik finally fought back, strangled the man who tortured him day after day. When they came for him, I hid him. He has known nothing of the world ever since."

My heart was starting to ache. I hadn't been fond of gypsies before hearing this story, and now I found them utterly despicable.

"This opera house was his… playground, and now his home. His world is here, inside." She trembled once and I stared back at her. We were silent. I had nothing to say on the matter and it didn't appear she had much more she wanted to speak about on it, either. At last, she said, "Enough of that. I would like to hear about you? You live below the opera house with him, no?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "For nearly two weeks now." It really had been that long, hadn't it? Time had just seemed so irrelevant in the past fortnight. "But… he left me alone last night and went back alone," I mumbled. "I can't get back there without him."

Madame Giry made a noise of disgust and shook her head, looking aggravated. "Of all the inconsiderate…" she paused and held her head. "Erik is in love – or at the very least _believes _he is in love – with one of my girls, Christine Daae."

"Yes, I know," I mumbled bitterly. "We were in a tunnel beneath the stage listening to her sing when he abandoned me."

"Hm. Well, at any rate, Christine vanished from her room last night maybe three quarters of an hour after the performance. She has not returned. And Erik returned to your home and left you behind last night after the performance, yes? Now… I hardly think these two are unconnected. Erik has stolen Christine away for the time being, though I doubt he will keep her for very long. The girl is too curious for her own good."

"How long, though?" I asked. "My life is down there, too."

"Who can say how long?" Madame Giry said. "Maybe they will return tomorrow, maybe week. But they _will _return. In the meantime, you are welcome to remain here, or even in Christine's quarters. No one will enter there."

I was shaking my head _no_ to her second proposal before she even finished. I didn't want to be where the girl who had Erik's affections spent her time. "Here will be fine, thank you," I said, tracing the mask on the table. "Is there anything I can… do…?"

I wanted to work, to be honest. I wanted a distraction. I wanted to immerse myself in something that took all of my concentration and left me no room in my brain to dwell on Erik or Christine or the fact that my chest hurt so badly it felt like my heart was splitting in half.

"Not for the time being," Madame Giry told me, to my disappointment. She stood up and went to the door. "I take it you are hungry. I'll find breakfast for you. And Caesar must be hungry too, no?" She cast me an almost mischievous glance. I could only stare at her. She smiled. "I'll bring some food to the horse," she promised. "In the meantime, get some sleep. You look dead on your feet."

And she left the room. I stared at the door long after she had gone, still appalled. She knew… everything. She knew about Erik and about his obsessions and where he lived and even about his _horse_. She knew _everything_!

I groaned and stood up. Why hadn't I thought to ask Erik any of this? Anything about himself? Because I was scared?

Well, yes, but that wasn't the point.

I was furious. The more I thought about Erik, the angrier I got. I was angry at him and Christine and myself and even Madame Giry. Erik was a jackass. I don't know why he even bothered saving me from that drunk man if he was just going to abandon me the second he saw an opportunity to steal away some girl he had a very obviously unhealthy obsession with. I was just mad at Christine because of the role she played in all of this. I was mad a t myself because I couldn't do a damned thing about any of this. I couldn't make Erik not love Christine and I couldn't make the scars on my face go away and I just couldn't change the fact that my life is more or less out of my control.

And I was angry at Madame Giry just to have one more person to be angry at.

To be honest, more than being angry I was just exhausted. I was tired of being angry and sick of my chest hurting and weary of Erik and his antics already. Wishing it wasn't so quiet, longing for the sound of Mozart from Erik's piano, I heeded Madame Giry's words and collapsed on top of her bed. Slumber took me almost immediately.

* * *

**Fin! I've been writing pretty long chapters for this story, huh? Anyway, what do you think? Erik is such a jerk… but I know he'd do this to poor Selim. So, yay for Madame Giry! I personally believe she talks to Erik a lot more than it's let on… I mean, she'd practically his accomplice in the movie.**

**Send me your reviews! Maybe… say… three or four before I post the next chapter? Just tell me your opinion… what you want to see happen… also, if any of you know exactly how long Christine stayed down in the Phantom's lair (because in the original book it was two weeks, and the movie doesn't really specify a time frame).**

**Love you all, thanks for reading.**

**Phantom, out!**


	4. Worry, Want

**Okay, so we're back with Chapter 4 and I must say that I'm ecstatic with the positive feedback I've received. I'm aware the typical love story begins with the main character despising her love interest, but hey – that's just tradition, and it was also appropriate for Selim's character. As a matter of fact, in response to one of my reviews, I **_**was**_** considering doing something from Erik's point of view – or at the very least, some second-person narration centering around him. I figured I may as well try to capture some of the essence that is the Phantom. It will be a challenge, at any rate, so don't stone me or anything. 'Kay?**

**So, here's Chapter 4, and keep in mind that I own nothing. A big, fat, hollow, nothing. T.T**

* * *

**~Erik~**

He sat at the organ like he did every night, staring at the scores of unfinished music. He was so close. The music was _there_, floating tantalizingly around him, but just out of his reach. It was playing faintly, softly, in the back of his head, and yet he couldn't translate it to the paper. The notes eluded him. His quill was poised uselessly over the musical scores he had been working meticulously on for the last twenty years. He could hear it. The crescendos, the staccatos, repeats. But what notes, what beats? Quarter notes, eighth notes, what?

He shut his eyes. The music had never eluded him like this before. Perhaps it was Christine's presence. She was not forty feet away, in his bedroom – in his _bed_, he thought with a shudder of delight. He'd brought her there when she fainted, somewhat dejected. He dearly hoped she had not fallen unconscious from the shock of seeing her wedding dress. Of course, the things he had shown her, his music of the night, had all been overwhelming. And she was tired from her performance, he had no doubt.

At long last, he felt he was getting his happy ending.

Aside from the guilt. The guilt seemed to be eating at his stomach, clawing at his very unreachable center. He hadn't given a whole lot of thought to the girl – Selim – when he'd left. His mind had been filled, his heart overflowing, with Christine, Christine, Christine. His angel of music and his muse, his beautiful Christine who sang like a goddess and enchanted him with every word she spoke. How was he to go to her with the girl tailing behind him? How would he explain Selim's presence to the love of his life?

So he had left her. He hadn't dwelt on what she would do when she found herself alone. To be honest, at the time, he could only recall thinking what an incredible stroke of luck it had been that her eyes were closed when he'd left, so she couldn't follow him.

He wasn't sure about Selim at all. The girl stayed out of his way usually, but she was obstinate and curious. She wasn't bad company, he supposed, but he didn't know what to _do _with her company. He felt responsible for her since it was he who had rescued her from that drunk man in the alley. The same man he'd strangled with a Punjab lasso.

It wasn't out of gallantry that he had saved her. It wasn't out of some dormant dream of playing a hero. It was only that he wouldn't have been able to live with himself had he not tried to rescue her. He had been on the roof looking out over the street. Christine had gone out with Meg, the daughter of Madame Giry, and he was watching for his angel's safe return. And as he'd been watching, he'd heard a terrible scream.

Curiosity rather than pity for whoever had made the sound had led Erik to investigate. And what he had seen gave him terrible flashbacks of the gypsy caravan he'd been kept captive in as a child, even feeling the ghost of the club the man he'd strangled had used daily on his sides and over his head. The girl was being tortured down there, and judging from the glint of a silver knife and dark drops of what he could only assume was blood dotting the ground next to her face, the marks left on her would be much more than the bruises he'd suffered from.

She'd screamed again and again. It had been the sound of pure agony. And he had thought that surely someone would come to save the girl, but no one had. So he'd gone a little crazy and taken matters into his own hands. The girl had stopped screaming by the time he'd scaled the wall and leapt down, knocking her attacker off of her. He realized this was because she'd gone unconscious. Blood was pouring out of a gash on her cheek and gushing from the deep cut running across her eyebrow. He was disgusted by what the man had done to her.

He had a rope with him – for such an occasion Christine might have had some unwanted suitor on her tail; she was very pretty, of course, and attracted too much male attention for his comfort – and thrust it around the man's neck, strangling him with ruthless efficiency, not thinking about the consequences.

When the man's last breath had left him, Erik pulled the rope calmly off of him, looped it around his own arm to make it easier to carry, and dragged the dead body into the recesses of the alley, hiding it among trash and boxes. Then there was the girl to worry about.

Her face had been horribly mutilated, though the blood made it look worse than it probably was. He couldn't just leave her alone out here – she'd bleed to death. What on earth had he gotten himself into? He wondered as he tried wiping some of the blood away from her face with a red handkerchief from his pocket. The blood just kept coming. Sighing, he picked her up and mapped out the best way to get inside the opera house without being seen.

Forty minutes later, after sneaking in through a back door and transporting her to his home in the catacombs of the opera house, she was lying awkwardly in his bed and he was pressing alcohol-soaked rags against her cuts. The flow of blood had stemmed, but the gashes were still angry and red. He was surprised that not even the alcohol seeping into her open flesh had woken her up.

He did the same thing continually for the next couple of hours, and the gashes on her face had gotten much better, though they still slowly seeped blood. And finally, she had woken up.

Awake, she was fascinating. Her name mesmerized him, especially. _Selim_, the name of a once great Turkish sultan who had been called "The Grim." Once she'd gotten used to the idea of living in his lair and grown comfortable with him, she was no less than an enigma. She never asked about his mask; she accepted it without a word. She marveled at the various artifacts, ones he had crafted and some merely obtained, littered about the lair. He had once caught her staring at the drawings of Christine on the wall with an almost longing gaze in her eyes. And, of course, she loved music. She wanted to listen to his opera, but he wouldn't allow her to hear it in any finalized form. He would play Mozart when she asked, and he found that having someone there listening to and enjoying what he played on piano was euphoria-inducing.

He'd made her a mask partly for his benefit; her scars were a reminder that he had gotten there too late to keep a girl who had once possessed a pretty face from being marked hideously. They reminded him that he was so pitiful that he had taken a companion, her face undesirable, like his, because some part of him longed for someone who could truly understand him. The other reasons were all for her benefit. He knew better than anyone the anguish that came with seeing in the mirror a person who should have been handsome, beautiful, but the face reflected back simply wasn't as it should have been. Selim couldn't control that the drunken man in the alley had mutilated her face, just as he couldn't control the fact that he had been born with such a hideous disfigurement.

Erik could have sworn, once or twice, when he'd returned from instructing Christine through voice lessons, Selim would leap away from his piano and disappear into her bedroom – a small alcove he had allowed her – for several minutes. No doubt she had been attempting to play and had retreated out of embarrassment for the awkward music she was plinking out. Perhaps he would teach her, he thought. It might help free up his mind for the opera he was so close to finishing.

"_There were candles all around_

_And on the lake there was a boat._

_And in the boat there was a man_…"

He opened his eyes and turned around upon hearing Christine's voice, which sent shivers up and down his spine. She was coming up out of his bedroom, looking beautiful as she always did, her thick, curly brown hair spilling uncontrollably around her shoulders and her eyes bright. She was looking at him with tender curiosity.

Beautiful music, that sweet, enchanting singing voice of hers, poured from her lips as she approached him.

"_Who was that shape in the shadows?_

_Whose is the face in the mask_?"

She was curious about that then, he thought briefly. Not like Selim, who hadn't said a word about it, not even when he'd given her a mask of her own. The thought was fleeting, vanishing the moment she placed her hands upon his face. Her hands, her small hands, which sent jolts of yearning, of desire, of pure unadulterated wanting through his nervous system.

Lost in the sensation, he tilted his face back, silently pleading to any power that may be that she would caress his face, kiss him, anything.

Then Erik felt his mask lifted away from his face and heard Christine's small gasp of horror. His immediate response was instinctual; preservative, even. His hand flew to the right side of his face, trying to hide the disfigurement that she had already seen. Ruined, all ruined, she would be terrified of him, she had ruined the illusion, and all was lost! Ruined!

At once he leapt to his feet, keeping his hand on his face, and knocked her to the ground. Damn her and damn his hideous face! Damn everyone, everything! How could anything work out the way he had wanted it to now when she had gone and ruined everything?!

Enraged, Erik began to shout at her. He knew he would regret it not a minute later, yelling at his sweet angel of music, but her curiosity had shattered the illusions both of them had been living in.

"_Damn you! _

_You little prying Pandora!_

_You little demon!_

_Is this what you wanted to see_?!"

He ripped one of the curtains off of a mirror and stared briefly at his horrible face. He couldn't bear it. He whirled around, growing angrier by the second.

"_Curse you!_

_You little lying Delilah!_

_You little viper!_

_Now you cannot ever be free._

_Damn you…_

_Curse you_…"

His voice cracked with the unbearable agony of it all as he staggered away from her, knocking over one of his many candle stands. She would be terrified of him after that horrid burst of anger, that terrible display of emotion that shook him to his core. She had ruined everything and he had taken it further. He hated himself. He hated his face. He hated everything.

But Christine… Christine, he loved.

Didn't he?

Ever so slowly, he turned, lamenting mournfully. He loved her with his entire being, he was quite sure. All he wanted in the world was Christine. He had to make her see that. He had to make her love him.

"_Stranger than you dreamt it._

_Can you even dare to look?_

_Or bear to think of me?_

_This loathsome gargoyle who burns in Hell_

_But secretly_

_Yearns for Heaven,_

_Secretly, secretly_…

_Oh, Christine_…"

He looked at her with painful longing in his eyes. She stared back with an unbearable expression of fear and tentativeness. Her expression sent him to hating himself further. Oh, god, he wanted her approval, yearned for her love.

"_Fear can turn to love._

_You'll learn to see,_

_To find the man behind the monster. This_

_Repulsive carcass who seems a beast_

_But secretly dreams of beauty_

_Secretly_…"

"Oh, Christine," he breathed again, his voice cracking as he sat, facing away from her, holding his head. What had he just done? What condemnation had he brought upon himself? Already she had seen his detestable face, and he had acted equally detestable, further marring any chance this beautiful, perfect creature had of loving him as he loved her.

In the corner of his eye he saw Christine's hand offering something out to him. His mask, which he had knocked aside along with her in his rage. Slowly, he took it back from her, returned it to his face, and stood. She seemed intimidated by him now, withdrawing from him slightly. How horrible he had acted.

He swallowed down a lump caught in his throat. His wig had slipped – strands of the fake black hair were skewed. He could only hope none of his sandy hair had crept from beneath it. His voice unsteady, he looked down upon Christine, his angel, and said, "Come. We must return. Those two fools who run my theater will be missing you."

And as he held out his hand and she hesitantly took it, he could not escape from the thought that Selim would have never tried to remove his mask the way his angel had.

* * *

**~Selim~**

The sound of the door being unlocked startled me into alertness. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, staring at the door and anticipating Madame Giry's return to her quarters. I had no way of knowing how long I had slept, though it did not feel like it had been nearly sufficient enough to satiate my exhaustion. I pushed my hair back out of my face and grimaced. It was heavy with dirt and oil. I hated it when my hair got filthy like this.

My mask was still sitting on the table. I don't know why that bothered me, but it did. Without the mask I felt suddenly exposed.

The door opened and I looked up expecting to greet Madame Giry, but found myself staring into a pair of light blue doe eyes that I had seen before from a distance. The girl was young, my age, with a curtain of gold for hair. I registered a single syllable inside my head. _Meg_.

"Who are you?" she asked at once, suspicious, scanning the scars on my face. I looked away and messed up my hair so it hung into my face instead of away from it like I had originally wanted, trying to hide the awful white lines on my cheek and over my eye.

"Selim," I replied huskily, clearing my throat. "Your mother… I mean, Madame Giry…" I trailed off. It wasn't like I was in the wrong being inside the room. I was hiding, yes, but the room's owner had offered it up to me for that purpose. Therefore I was perfectly within my right to be there.

"What are you doing?" she asked, craning her head, trying to get another good look at my face. I moved when she did, angling myself in such a way that she would have to walk around me if she wanted another look at the scars.

"Hiding," I said simply. I was trying to figure out the best way to grab the mask and get the hell out of the room. I didn't want another person to know of my presence here. What was up with these Giry women anyway? Madame Giry hadn't so much as cringed when she saw my face, and Meg was staring at me with nothing more extreme than fascination in her eyes. Did nothing intimidate them?

"Does my mother know you're in here?" she asked, looking back at the door.

"How else would I have gotten in?" I pointed out, turning my face in another angle as she craned her head to ogle at my scars. I wish she'd stop. Wasn't it very apparent that I didn't want her to see them?

"Are you joining the ballet?" she asked. Did the questions never end? Where was Madame Giry, anyway? She could get this girl to stop asking me questions.

I shook my head. "I've never danced before."

She looked somewhat confused. I was almost sure she was going to ask me another question, but the door swung open again. I was afraid it was someone else who would ogle at my scars and interrogate me, and I lunged for my mask and fumbled with it as I slapped it onto my face. At least this way I didn't feel so exposed.

Madame Giry came into the room with what I dearly hoped was a bundle of food wrapped in a handkerchief for me, but from the way she looked at Meg with shock and then anger, I doubted that the food she'd retrieved for me was the first thing on her mind at the moment. "Meg!" she snapped, looking from her daughter to me and back again. "What is this? What are you doing in here?"

"I was looking for you," Meg explained at once. "Favourite's sick and she says she can't rehearse today and—"

And you thought that was a reasonable excuse to enter my quarters using the key I gave you for only the direst of situations. Is Favourite dying?"

Meg stared at her feet, ashamed. "No."

"Then I hardly see how that warrants entering my quarters without my permission," Madame Giry said sternly. She turned to me and paused for a brief second when she saw I had put the mask back on, and then held the handkerchief bundle out to me. "Here you are, dear."

I took it but didn't open it.

She turned once more to her daughter. "Meg, this is Selim," she said briskly. "Selim is staying here at the opera house recovering from a recent injury she obtained. She is only here waiting for where she is staying to become available to her."

I'd recovered from that particular injury, I wanted to point out. My cuts were scars. There was nothing more that could be done about them. But I kept my mouth shut anyway. I did admire the way Madame Giry phrased things. Specific enough to be informative, but vague enough that one couldn't figure out their exact meanings.

"Oh," Meg said, blushing. I'm not sure I liked this doe-eyed blonde. Offering me a curious smile, she asked, "What wing are you staying in? We have an extra bed in the ballet dormitory—"

"That won't be necessary," Madame Giry interrupted her. "Now, you run along and get the girls ready for a brief rehearsal. There's a ballet in act three that isn't quite perfect yet, and performances of _Il Muto_ begin in a week. Tell Favourite that I'll be by to check on her shortly, and for her sake she had better be sick and not merely hung-over."

"Yes, of course," Meg said at once, racing from the room.

Madame Giry shook her head, her arms crossed. "God knows I love that girl, but sometimes I wonder whether or not she has any common sense," she sighed. She glanced at me. I was still standing with my mask on, frozen with the handkerchief in my hands. "Eat, dear, and then sleep," she instructed. "You look dead on your feet still." She smiled at me and held out her hand. "My key," she said as I took it from her. "Lock the door behind me. If you wish to leave this place, put the key on the table before you go." Just before she left, she added, "Erik has a strange set of ideals. That mask makes you something you are not… though I cannot say for you if it is what you want to be."

And she slipped out of the room, leaving me to ponder what on earth she could have meant. Something I wasn't? How could I be anything else? I'm a girl whose face is ruined by scars, and I want to hide them. I don't want other people to see them.

Except for… I'm not sure about Erik. I don't want him to see my scars because they're hideous, because they ruined any beauty I once had, and because I don't think he will like me if he's constantly reminded of disfigurements. I know he made me the mask for a reason. That reason. But at the same time, I almost don't mind if he sees them. My scars are a part of me. I want him to see _me_. As I am.

If only I could have met him before the man with the knife. Before the horrible incident in the alley. Then maybe he could… I stopped the thought before I could finish it.

But… is it even possible? Is it possible to want two vastly different things at the same time? I don't know, I don't know.

I sighed, setting the bundle of food on the table, and pulled my hair away from my face again. I wanted to wash it desperately. It would twist itself into terrible knots if it stayed this filthy for much longer. I pursed my lips and looked around. There was a thick black cord on Madame Giry's dresser. Promising I'd return it before I went back down to the lair – if Erik ever came back to retrieve me, I thought as my heart throbbed painfully – I picked it up and used it to tie my hair back.

Once that was done, giving me a little piece of mind, I pulled the mask off and turned it over in my hands. Something I wasn't? Preposterous. This is what I am.

My stomach growled and I was reminded of the food. For some reason, I didn't really want to eat anymore, but I hoped it would make me feel a little better, not quite so sick. I sat down at the table, set the mask down, and unfolded the handkerchief. There were two slabs of buttered bread and a thick piece of ham. God bless Madame Giry.

The meat was the first thing to go, then the bread. I didn't feel a whole lot better, but at least my stomach wasn't churning anymore. I sat back and frowned. I felt empty. I almost felt like I was going to cry. I buried my face in my hands. What if Erik never came back? What if he made Christine fall madly in love with him and never gave me a second thought as they went on with their lives, lived their happily ever after? What would I do then? Hide here forever?

I missed Erik. Crazy as that was, I missed him. I was still furious with him, but if seeing him would help fill the gaping hole that being abandoned by him had ripped in my chest, well then damn it, I wanted to see him.

Which brought me back to wondering if he would ever come back for me. I wished he would come back.

I rested my arms on the table and buried my face in the sleeves of my dress. I doubted God was listening to me, since I had abandoned Him three years ago and only recently acknowledged Him again, but I prayed anyway. Prayed that Erik would somehow realize the torment he was putting me through and come back. Actually, at that point I didn't even care why he would come back. As long as he did.

And as I prayed, I realized I was crying softly. I wouldn't have noticed, I was so lost inside my head, had tears not started dampening my sleeves. I sighed and pulled myself out of my mind, wiping at my eyes and scolding myself for being such a wimp. He would come back, I assured myself. He had to. If he didn't, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

My muscles were still heavy and I felt slow with grogginess. I didn't particularly want to sleep again, but I didn't think I was going to hold out much longer trying to stay awake. So I followed Madame Giry's orders, fell back onto her bed, and, incidentally, back into sleep.

I realized just before the black took me that I had forgotten to lock the door.

* * *

**~Madame Giry~**

Madame Giry descended from the ballet dormitory after checking in on Favourite, who seemed to have a raging case of the flu, thinking about Erik and the girl hiding in her bedroom. It had been two hours since she'd left Selim in her quarters again. She very much hoped the girl was getting some more sleep. She had looked so bad. Her hair was a dreadful mess, there were dark shadows under her red eyes, and her entire demeanor had practically screamed the girl's desperation and loneliness to the world.

Madame Giry was not furious, exactly, by Erik's inconsiderate act, but she was dismayed by his lack of concern for a girl he was primarily responsible for. She had found Selim and known at once the girl was scared out of her wits, though she had been doing her best to conceal it. She'd been rather shocked to hear Erik had taken this girl into his home, that ghastly lair in the catacombs, and she was even more surprised by the amount of… _devotion_ this girl almost seemed to have to him.

Even without the words, even though the girl hadn't wanted to talk about Erik, that much had been apparent.

The rehearsal had been briefer than she expected it would be; she was going to have to ban her girls from drinking, or at the very least limit their alcohol intake. Three of her girls were drunk still, and of the rest of them all but four were hung-over. She was mildly disgusted by their lack of self-control and had forced them through their ballet no matter how much they complained of headaches or sore limbs. While the dance was not smooth, she hadn't seen any point in continuing if a majority of them could barely do a proper pirouette.

As she was returning to her quarters to check on Selim she passed Christine's room. She could have sworn she heard voices coming from inside it and she paused, staring at the door. She wasn't wrong. She listened to the very faint footsteps and a high voice. Christine's. She couldn't hear the words through the door, and the girl was too far away.

Erik's voice was unmistakable, and as she could hear every word he spoke. Madame Giry assumed he was standing right next to the door. "You need not worry, Angel. All will be taken care of."

Her door opened and a cloaked figure slipped from the room, shutting the door behind him. Madame Giry, agitated, cleared her throat. "You seem to have forgotten something," she said, crossing her arms.

Erik, better known to those on the surface as the phantom of the opera, turned to her, unfazed. The mask on his face reminded her too much of Selim's. "You think so," he said. It was not a question. "I was under the impression I covered my tracks rather well."

"Then explain to me why there is a girl – wearing a mask to hide two scars on her face – hiding in my quarters," Madame Giry said stonily. She always hated when Erik acted like he'd done nothing wrong when he so obviously had.

"Is that where she went?" Erik asked, sounding little more than curious. "I wondered where she had disappeared to when she wasn't waiting by the lake."

"What, down there all night? She would have frozen half to death! Selim is a _girl_, Erik, _not_ a part of your collection of artifacts that can be discarded on a whim," Madame Giry said hotly. He was really starting to get on her nerves.

He looked away, indignant. "I am aware that she is a girl. You think of me as blind?"

"No, I think of you as a fool," Madame Giry muttered. He threw her an icy glare. Far from intimidated, she inquired, "Will you take the girl back with you, then?"

His answer took a moment. "If she wants to come."

Madame Giry had no doubt Selim wanted to go back down there with him. Her concern was, what happened to the girl once she had? "And what are you to do with her the next time, hm? Send her back to me? I won't take her like that again, not for the reason you abandoned her this time. Either send her away entirely or learn to live with your decisions. You saved her for a reason. Maybe you should figure out what that reason is."

Erik stared at her, struggling with a response, but at last he looked away again and asked sullenly, "She's in your quarters, then?"

* * *

**Fin! Another long one, I love it! It's getting easier to write. So, please tell me what you thought about the Erik-centered narration and what you think is going to happen next… just review, please. Reviews get me up in the morning. They help me breathe!**

**Love you all, thanks for reading.**

**Phantom, out!**


	5. Floating, Falling

**I** **return to bring you chapter five. I don't have the energy to write you an intro, so we'll just get right down to the meat of things. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, sad as that is. I'm contemplating hiring a genius to make a machine that can send me into movies… I'll love you, Erik!**

* * *

**~Selim~**

I almost had a heart attack when someone put their hand on my shoulder, trying to wake me up. I jolted up, almost hitting whoever it was in the face, so quickly that my vision went blurry and my head spun, and I rolled right off the bed. A pair of arms caught me before I hit the floor and held me steady as the world came into focus. I had to remember to breathe, I'd been so startled.

I wiped sleep out of my eyes and turned around. I had no earthly idea who'd caught me. "Thank you—" I began, but froze when I saw the white mask covering half of the man's face. Erik. Erik had come back.

My stomach rolled and I staggered away from him. My eyes were wide and I felt like I was going to cry. "You… you're here," I managed to choke out after a long moment.

He looked back at me. I could see nothing in his expression but passive amusement. No guilt or surprise. "I am."

"Erik, for Heaven's sake, I hope you haven't gone and waken the poor girl—" Madame Giry exclaimed in a hushed tone as she came into the room, but stopped the moment she saw me. She sighed heavily and said nothing more.

I took a long, deep breath. I had thought I wanted to see Erik so badly, but as each second passed I got angrier and angrier at him. I also realized, with a pang of alarm, that I'd discarded the mask again. He could see the repulsive scars he'd wanted me to hide. "Why did you come back?" I asked in a muffled voice. There was a lump in my throat that refused to go away no matter how many times I tried to swallow it down.

A shadow crossed his face, but only for an instant. To distract myself, I crossed the room and picked up the mask. But when I went to lift it to my face, my hands trembled and I hesitated. Madame Giry came to my side and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Did you not wish for my return?" Erik asked in a steady voice. Damn it, I wish he'd get rattled a little! He was infuriating me further with his calm manner, his unwavering tone.

I was not, under any circumstances, going to tell him that was the_ only_ thing I'd been wishing for in the last eighteen hours. I felt something warm and wet slither down my cheek. Silently cursing, I rubbed the tear away. "I wasn't sure you would come back," I mumbled. Why couldn't I move my arms?

Erik took a step forward. When I flinched, he paused. "Shall we return home?" he asked quietly. He wasn't fazed. I don't know why I'd expected him to be. I looked away from him and shook with a sob I refused to let escape.

Madame Giry patted my shoulder and said soothingly, "It's all right, dear. You don't have to go back with him. Not if that isn't what you want."

I let out a watery laugh. "And where would I go? What would I do?" I asked. I felt almost delirious. I rubbed at my eyes a little too roughly and put the mask on.

"I'm sure you would make a lovely dancer, my dear. Get you trained a bit; you could be a part of the chorus in a month, maybe two—"

God, I appreciated the gesture, but I knew it was impossible. I am no dancer. I'm the clumsiest person alive. And my scars… nobody would ever give me any peace with those scars. Slowly, I began to shake my head. "Thank you, Madame Giry, but… I'm afraid I wouldn't fit in with your girls." I pulled away from her and took the cord I'd gotten from her dresser out of my hair. I held it out to her. "I borrowed this," I mumbled.

"Keep it," she smiled sadly. "And if anything…" she glanced at Erik. "If anything happens, you come straight to me."

"Yes, Madame," I said, lowering my gaze. I didn't know if that was a lie or not, to be honest. I wasn't at all sure if I would keep that promise. Chewing on my bottom lip, I turned to face Erik. "All right," I whispered.

He held his hand out to me. "Then come." Still calm. Always calm.

I hesitated, but he still held his hand out. He slipped his other hand into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope with a red wax skull for a seal and held it out to Madame Giry. "Give this to the two fools who manage my opera house," he ordered as she pursed her lips and took it from him. "I've already dispensed several others, but this is of the most significant nature. Make sure they're aware of that." He looked to me again. "Shall we?"

I took his hand, casting a final glance towards Madame Giry, before he led me through the door. Silently, we slipped through the halls until we came to a very well-concealed door behind a tapestry. We went through it and, after descending a flight of stone steps, were back in the cold and dark tunnels.

Erik took a torch out of its holder on the wall. I was suddenly very aware that my hand was still in his. Why was I blushing because of that? I was still angry at him. I shouldn't have felt this pull. I shouldn't still want to be around him. If anything, I should want to punch him in the face and then run like Hell before he caught and killed me for it.

Caesar was tied up at the mouth of the central tunnel, next to a thick stone staircase, far from the boat. I patted his side a few times as we passed him, wondering if Madame Giry ever got him food. I hoped she had.

I couldn't believe that we didn't talk the entire walk to the boat, and further still that my hand never left his. I was shocked by myself because I didn't take my hand away. Maybe he was unconsciously trying to atone for abandoning me the way he had, and maybe I was just looking for a way to forgive him.

We came to the boat. I almost hadn't expected it to be waiting for us at the water's edge. Erik discarded his torch in an empty holder and held me steady as I crawled into the boat. Lord knows I tried to be graceful, but I think the damned craft almost tipped over. "Careful," Erik advised me. I threw a glare at him, but I'm not entirely sure he saw it.

He untied the boat and hopped in, so lithe and elegant that the boat barely rocked. I tried telling myself it was just years and years of practice that made him so graceful when he got in and out of the boat, while this was only the second time I'd ridden in it. Though honestly, I knew it was just _him_. He was simply elegant and graceful naturally.

We began slithering through the water. I couldn't bear the horrible silence any longer. Refusing to look at him, I asked, "Were you singing last night?"

His reply took a moment. "I was." I wished he would give me more than that. His answers were always so minimal, barely giving me enough information to answer the questions that I asked.

"It… is sounded… that is, I heard some," I mumbled. Why wasn't I able to form a coherent thought? They were just words. Spit them out, Selim! "And it sounded wonderful."

He said nothing in response. I sighed, anticipating our boat ride would be, once again, completely silent. I hated the quiet. It made me uneasy. I wrapped my arms around my legs as I curled my knees into my chest, watching the water ripple as the boat slid through it.

It started slowly, softly, Erik's singing. I almost didn't hear the first few words, and how I would have regretted not knowing the first lines of his chilling melody. I recognized it immediately as the song I'd heard echoing through the tunnels as I waited by the water last night for his return that never came.

_"Nighttime sharpens_

_Heightens each sensation._

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses _

_Abandon their defenses."_

The words resonated in my unreachable core, the depths of my soul. It brought back chilling memories of my abandoned, dilapidated chapel named for a saint whose name I never knew, the countless sins of black magic and Wicca that I had attempted beyond its doors. The hopelessness and the anguish when my spell casting proved fruitless. The despair that came with realizing my mother could never return to the living.

_"Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor._

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._

_Turn your face away _

_From the garish light of day._

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night."_

I almost started crying. It rung too true, to deep. The world above, the world I'd been a part of for much of my life, had turned me out with harsh and careless abandon. My father was a hopeless, abusive drunk who disappeared when I was eight. My mother taken from me by tuberculosis when I was fourteen. The elderly couple who had been kind enough to take me in, both dead, their grandchildren throwing me out with no second thought. Had that really only been a little over half a year now? And, of course, two weeks ago, the event that changed my life forever and cast me into darkness for the rest of my eternity. The man in the alley who had, with his knife, ruined my face and my dignity, ruined any chance for a life on the surface I could have had. I was empty but for the darkness, dwelling in the catacombs of the opera house with a man, bitter like I was, and frightening, who christened himself a phantom and attacked performers to fulfill an agenda he had mapped out for a girl who he loved irrevocably but did not love him in return. A man who'd been trampled by the world. Like me.

_"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams._

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar."_

I shut my eyes, but I didn't feel my spirit going anywhere. Maybe I was still too attached. Too afraid. But whatever it was that was keeping me from achieving this dark enlightenment, at least, at the moment, I could listen to the long, beautiful note that resonated through the tunnels and sent shudders running up and down my spine.

"_And you live as you've never lived before_."

The corners of my lips twitched upwards into a smile. Or a smirk. I was already living a life I had never dreamed of. Three years ago, if someone had told me I'd eventually be living with the elderly couple down the street, I'd have brushed it off as a joke. Two years ago, when I was living with said elderly couple, if someone had told me I'd take refuge in a chapel with an unnamed saint, I'd have laughed in their face. And, six months ago, when I was living in the chapel, if someone told me I'd come to live below an opera house with a man who was both enchanting and dangerous, I'd have called them crazy. And probably also picked their pockets.

That got me to thinking – where would I be in a year? Prison was actually a likely guess. Erik was attacking performers, and if they caught him they'd catch me too, call me an accomplice, which I was, sort of, and throw me behind bars. Hell, maybe I'd be dead. It would be only too easy, with my lack of grace, to fall into this underground lake and drown. Or fall to my death off the walkways in the rafters that overlooked the stage.

"_Softly, deftly, Music shall caress you. _

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you. _

_Open up your mind. _

_Let your fantasies unwind. _

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight, _

_The darkness of the music of the night_!"

I knew the words had been for Christine originally, that he was merely repeating what had already been sung, but damn, I thought, if this were true I would give myself entirely to it. His music of the night. I was halfway there already. Just a little more of this, listening to his voice, and I'd be engulfed by it completely. Just a little more… And maybe he'd let me… Oh, no. I stopped my thoughts right there. That was not a possibility. Ever. Better to not think about it at all. Or else I'd go crazy.

"_Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world._

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Let your soul take you where you long to be_!"

It was coming; I waited for it. The words that made me shudder last night, the words I wanted to hear spoken to me and only for me. The words that mattered more to me, all of a sudden, than anything else. I wanted to hear that if I did as he said, succumbed to the music of the night, I could be his. Completely and utterly his.

The words did not come. He replaced them.

"_Close your eyes; let the music set you free_."

That was, quite possibly, the cruelest thing he could have done to me at that moment. They'd been so close. Too close. The words I wanted, almost _needed_. Hanging between us, and all he'd had to do was snatch them out of the air and give them to me, even if they weren't true.

I felt almost devastated. I'd wanted those words so badly. He just wouldn't let me have that happiness. Wouldn't give me anything. A tear rolled down my cheek as I pulled off my mask, and I left it alone. Who cared if Erik saw I was crying? It was his fault. And damn him if he didn't feel bad about it.

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. _

_Music reeling, _

_Savor each sensation._

_Let the dream begin, _

_Let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write;_

_The power of the music of the night_!"

We came upon the lair as he finished the verse. I was hollow and furious, still upset about the way he had changed the line I had wanted to hear most in the world. The boat came to a stop and Erik got out without a word. As he was tying up the boat, I got up and got out myself. Or fell out, to be more precise. I tripped over the edge and toppled out of the boat in such a way that my knees and everything below those became immersed in water.

Wasn't that just adding insult to injury. Obviously, the universe was out to make me suffer today.

Almost immediately, I felt Erik's gloved hands on my arms, trying to help me to my feet and out of the water, but I wrenched myself away from him and did it myself, stalking past him until I reached his miniature stage. I paused and looked at the new scene portrayed in it. It seemed to be _Il Muto_, but the heads of the countess and the pageboy had been switched.

"The newest of plans to be set in motion," Erik said from behind me. I shrunk away from his voice. "Carlotta has exhausted her talents here. The performance yesterday evening should have proven that at least, but just to be sure, I've sent along a few reminders to my managers. Miss Daae will play the Countess and Carlotta the pageboy, the silent role. Ideal casting, wouldn't you agree?"

I didn't care. I didn't care. I didn't care. I didn't care about this stupid wax play sitting on the miniature stage or stupid Christine Daae or stupid Erik and his stupid whims. I didn't care. Or at least, I didn't want to care.

Damn it, why did I care so much? Because he goes out of his way for this girl? Because he left me alone in that tunnel so he could go to her, steal her away? Because he doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything aside from Christine Daae?

"I suppose," I mumbled in response, moving away from him. Without looking at him, I stalked into my alcove, stripped off my wet dress and threw on a different one, fell into the boat that served as my bed, cocooned myself in blankets, and let myself cry. I didn't care. I didn't care. I didn't want to care. But I did care. Why did caring hurt so much?

I might have fallen asleep after a while, but I didn't know. Maybe I just fell into my thoughts so deeply I wasn't aware of anything else. I assumed it was sleep, because I dreamed Erik was standing before me, his white mask almost glowing in the darkness of my candlelit bedroom.

I was pulled back into the world by the sound of piano music, soft and sweet. It was like a summons to my blood.

* * *

**~Erik~**

He didn't feel guilty, he tried to convince himself. The unsettling sensation in the pit of his stomach was surely something else. A feeling that came with love, or lovesickness. It was just that he missed his Christine so much. Selim was merely being foolish… wasn't she?

When she disappeared into her bedroom, he found himself inundated with something he had never felt before. There were scores of possibilities as to what it could be, but he refused to believe it was the one thing the back of his mind kept telling him it was – guilt.

She'd been holed up in her alcove for an hour and the feeling kept getting worse. Two hours and he feared he might actually be going crazy. He was sitting in front of his small stage twirling a rose in his hand, absentmindedly sketching a girl who looked very little like Christine, even though that was who he had intended to draw. Selim's mask, which he had retrieved from the boat, sat next to it on the table. She'd taken it off as she was crying. He couldn't fathom why she was so upset. She hadn't even accepted his help after she fell into the lake. Sighing, he picked up her mask, pushed his chair away from the table and crept towards Selim's alcove.

Halfway there, he paused. What was he doing? He wasn't supposed to care about the girl as much as he seemed to be. He had known from the moment he'd offered to let her stay in his home that it was solely out of pity for her now that her face looked the way it did. Not because he was supposed to care about her, or, awful as it was, about her feelings. He had partially wanted her because she could help him progress Christine's career, and, incidentally, win over his Angel of Music, the love of his life. He hadn't thought about what Selim would do once Christine became his.

He shook himself and kept going. He was just going in to return her mask and make sure the girl hadn't killed herself or something else. She had seemed awfully upset rushing into her bedroom, after all. She had hung up two thick red and black curtains that served to give her some privacy when she wanted some, and they were shut. Erik ducked beneath the curtains and entered her alcove.

It was much smaller than his bedroom. He wondered for a brief moment why Selim had chosen this alcove for herself when there were other larger ones she could have occupied, and he realized it was most likely to be courteous. Selim's bed, the wooden boat he had stolen from the back of the prop room, was shoved against the wall, blankets spilling over it. What amazed him was her choice of decoration. She had gathered up scores upon scores of music he had discarded, flattening out the ones he had folded or crumpled up, and she appeared to have composed for them lyrics of her own, sometimes disconnected when the music notes stopped. She didn't appear to know what several of the musical notations meant and had ignored several rules, but he couldn't deny that she had a way with words. Several of the lyrics she'd created dealt with longing, though for what he could not discern. There were several question marks hanging over some notes and in parentheses next to her words, as though she doubted what had been composed and what she had written.

Erik realized he was smiling. Not bad at all, he found himself thinking. You would never guess she was a true amateur.

Next to her bed, sprawled out across the floor, were pages with lines running across them and nothing else. Empty staves waiting to be given clefs and keys and notes. He stooped down and gathered them up just to make sure he had not missed something, some notation across the staves in fading ink, notes scratched but not inked onto the pages. Nothing. He wondered if she wanted to write something of her own.

There was one paper he had missed, a corner of it just visible beneath one of the sheets spilling over the side of her bed, and he tugged it out. It was one of his own, something he had discarded ages ago; maybe a year, long before Selim had come and disrupted his life, for being too simple. There were notes in her handwriting in the margins. Question marks and a few lines of text wondering how a note should be played, or if on certain notes she was supposed to strike the black key or the white key, and a few that stated the keys she played "didn't sound right." The staves were in the key of D major, not a difficult key, but she had circled the two sharp signs next to the treble clef and noted that she didn't know what key it was. Next to that statement was a large C, so he assumed she had attempted it in C major. No wonder the notes hadn't sounded quite right to her.

He was pulled out of his thoughts, pulled away from his close examination of the music scores, when he heard a very sharp breath and a shuddery exhale. He'd almost forgotten the reason he'd come into her bedroom was to check on her, and he'd forgotten she was in the room entirely when he delved into the music scores on the walls and floor. He set the pages of empty staves in his hands down and kept his old music with the notes she'd written in the margins, folding and pocketing it. He stood and looked down at her bed.

Selim had wrapped herself in the blankets so intricately she looked almost tangled in them, and she appeared to be asleep, albeit not very restfully. She was trembling, though she couldn't possibly have been cold, and her eyes were shut tight. He thought she may just be having a nightmare, before he realized that her cheeks were glistening with tears. Damn it, he thought. Was this his fault? Probably.

And she was upset for good reason, he supposed. He had to admit that leaving her alone in the tunnel was cruel. He had thought singing for her as they returned to their lair would make up for it, since she seemed to crave it so badly, but that had only made her more upset, for some strange reason. He couldn't imagine why.

He considered waking her up, but there was no reason to. And he could guess that she wasn't in any mood to be around him at the moment. As he looked down at her he had the strange, sudden desire to reach out and trace her scars, which he partially blamed himself for in the back of his mind, for not acting sooner so her face wouldn't have been ruined so thoroughly. He wanted, for some reason, to assure her that the scars were not her fault, even though she had never indicated that she thought that they were.

In the end he set the mask she had left in the boat down on the floor beside her bed and slipped out of the room, wondering why he felt so hollow now, even more than he had when he had to leave Christine, his beloved Angel of Music, to return home with Selim.

He went to his piano and sat down, pulling the music he had pocketed while in Selim's room out and unfolding it. Selim had written lyrics for it, as she had for other music scores he'd discarded. There was one line in particular that jumped out at him. _The thrill of stolen sweets on your tongue_. She had been writing in reference to her days on the streets, he could infer, but the lyric could be used elsewhere. He liked the lyric immensely.

He paused. There was a place in the opera he'd been writing where he just could not figure a good lyric. Not for years. He'd replaced the line countless times with words that did not flow well. If he just switched it around a little…

He stood and went to his organ, where the box that contained his opera in its unfinished form sat, opened it, and shuffled through it until he found the pages containing his opening scene. He scratched out the line he had come up with in his last revision and replaced it with a line he was finally satisfied with. He sat back and reread the lyrics that were now part of the official opening number of his opera.

"_Poor young maiden!_

_For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets_…"

He allowed himself a smirk. One less thing he had to worry about. He supposed he had to thank Selim for taking this small load off his shoulders. Then he sighed and went back to his piano, seating himself before it once more and holding his head. He felt even worse now about Selim's state. She was holed up in her alcove crying over who knew what he had done, and he had gone and stolen her lyrics for his opera.

Damn it, he thought again. Why was he so concerned with Selim and her feelings?

Without thinking too much, he placed his hands over the keys of the piano and began to play Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 4, the only solo piano piece the famous composer had written in the key of E-flat major. Halfway into the first of three parts of the piece, Selim's curtains shifted and she came tiptoeing out of her bedroom, as though she feared her footsteps would make the music stop. She crept up to the side of the piano, holding her breath, and watched his fingers as they danced across the keys.

He glanced at her. Her brown hair was slick and heavy with dirt, and tangling, but it didn't look bad. Her eyes were red from crying and she looked exhausted. But as she listened to the music her eyes lit up and a smile snuck its way across her rosy lips. Some of the heavy, perturbed feeling that had settled in his stomach over the last few hours eased, and Erik moved over on the small bench before his piano, giving Selim enough room to sit next to him, transfixed as she watched his hands. They stayed like that for a minute and a half, Selim in silent awe and Erik enjoying the unbroken attention, as he completed the first part of the sonata and let the music grow softer and softer until he lifted his hands from the keys and let the final chords fade.

Selim sighed contentedly, still staring at the piano. She reached out and tapped one of the keys, and the note hung in the air and faded as she said longingly, "I'd give anything to be able to play the piano the way you do."

"Would you like me to teach you?" The words slipped past his lips before he had completely registered he was going to speak them. Before he had even known what he wanted to say in response the offer had come out, and there was no taking it back.

Selim turned to him, her mouth agape. He could barely see her scars in the candlelight, he noticed. And she was very beautiful.

And then Erik stopped himself from thinking about Selim's face in the dim candlelight because it was Christine who he lived for, Christine that he loved.

"You'd really do that?" Selim finally asked, and Erik, unable to think of an answer, nodded. Her smile was dazzling, her delight almost contagious. "Oh, yes! Yes! Please, Erik, teach me to play the piano!"

He struggled to come up with a response. "Well… I can't think of any reason why I couldn't," he finally said. He felt a little defeated, but he could not honestly say he didn't want to teach Selim to play.

At least he had a good idea of where he should begin. He found a fresh sheet of parchment paper and drew seven small staves on one side and eight on the other. "The way you discern which key the piece you're playing is in is by the number of flats or sharps on the lines of the staff just after the clef. We'll use the treble clef for argument's sake…" He drew a perfect treble clef on each of the staves he had drawn. Selim watched his fingers in awe.

He indicated the blank staff. "No flats or sharps is the key of C major." He wrote the key in his slanting script beneath the staff, then drew a sharp on the top line of the next, writing the key beneath it as he spoke. "This is G major. On a base clef the sharp would be one line lower. Same for all the other keys. Do you understand?"

Selim nodded. "C major, no symbols. G major, one sharp; top line on treble clef, fourth line on base clef. All right, what's next?"

* * *

**~Selim~**

Having Erik teach me piano was like living some beautiful dream. He taught me all the keys that eluded me before, and I'll admit I hadn't known there was all that much of a difference between the base and treble clefs. Erik taught me the way to tell which keys were which, something I'd had no idea how to do before, and then the piano keys that corresponded to them. He showed me scales and I mimicked them. He got angry once or twice and covered my hands in his, guiding my fingers to the proper keys when I couldn't get it right. My skin tingled where he touched me.

I don't know how long it went like that. A few hours, maybe. He quizzed me again and again on the keys, and we went through piece of paper after piece of paper until he was sure I had them all down, and had me repeat the scales until all I could hear inside my head was the _do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do_ of all fifteen different keys. I didn't read music that day. I just shifted my hands until I could play the scales with both hands backwards and forwards without respite.

I guessed it was very late when Erik told me we would have to stop. I didn't even realize I was tired until he pointed out to me that I could barely keep my eyes open. I reluctantly stood up and stepped away from the piano. I looked at Erik.

I wanted to hug him. I wanted to feel more of that tingling sensation that I got when our hands touched. I wanted more. But I just… couldn't. "Erik?" I asked quietly, stifling a yawn.

"Selim." He turned his head just enough so that the masked part of his face was all I could see.

I blushed. "Thank you."

My heart was racing. It had been pounding all the while Erik was teaching me the keys and the scales, but now I felt as though my heart would explode. I could only see one of his deep, wonderful green eyes, but there was shock in them.

And I realized right then and there. Before I had the chance to do something stupid, I ran into my alcove and fell onto the floor, covering my mouth to keep from yelping or screaming or who knows what. I almost cried.

I don't know how long I sat there, holding my breath until I thought I'd pass out and then taking gulps of oxygen to steady myself before holding it in my lungs again. Eventually, when I'd calmed down enough, I crawled into bed and burrowed under the covers. Erik started playing the piano again.

I had fallen in love with him the way you fall asleep; slowly, and then all at once.

* * *

**Fin! That last line wasn't my brain child, sadly; it's John Green's. You should look him up – the man's a genius who's written most of my favorite books. I'll let you try to find which book that line is in. Teehee =3. I hope you liked this chapter and I cannot tell you how badly I want your reviews! Tell me if Erik is in character! Tell me if this was good, plausible, etc! I need reviews like fish need water and my mother needs coffee in the morning! If you don't want me to die, I suggest you drop me a line!**

**Love you all and thanks for reading! See you next chapter! **

**Phantom, out!**


	6. Plunging, Plundering

**So, I got **_**The Phantom of the Opera 25**__**th**__** Anniversary at the Royal Albert Hall**_** for Christmas, and I'm watching it as I write. Loving it; got to say. I notice, watching it, that the movie was a lot more pop than I previously thought. This one's **_**opera**_**. I can't quite get used to Ramin Karimloo's Phantom after Gerard Butler's. (Sigh.) The movie is good prep for **_**Love Never Dies**_**. I know how that one ends, and I'm waiting to watch it with one of my friends… he can pick up the pieces of my broken heart when (spoiler alert, so the ending will not be mentioned) Haha. Also, **_**Les Mis**_** is out! It was incredible! I'm having a damn good day. **

**So, I return to bring you the story of Selim and Erik. Selim, as you recall, has fallen (hard) for the Phantom of the Opera, he is teaching her piano, and the production of**_** Il Muto**_** is close at hand.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the **_**Phantom of the Opera**_**, though I do borrow the characters for my own sad plot lines.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**~Selim~**

Three days passed. I devoted much of my time to the piano, though I didn't start playing until Erik was satisfied I could identify keys, and then satisfied I could label both the treble and base staves correctly. Incidentally, that took another day. Erik was thorough. I didn't mind, of course, since he's a musical genius, but by the time he set a piece of music down in front of me and told me to attempt it, I almost let out a shout of delight.

It was Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 11 in A major. God forbid my fingers should slip and I'd hit the white D key rather than the black C sharp key. Erik got angry every time I fumbled. I eventually got through the piece, which was several pages long, very, very slowly. He'd keep trying to get me to pick up the tempo – especially because many parts were played very fast – but I kept my speed mostly consistent and very slow, because it was the only way I could get all the keys right. Or nearly right.

When I wasn't plinking out notes on the piano keys, I was reviewing my scales and listening to Erik, who would work on his opera when I wasn't bothering him with questions or irritating him with my mistakes. He went up to the surface the morning of the third day, for what purpose I did not know. He was very angry when he returned, muttering about war and disobedience, ordered me to stop playing at once because it was doing nothing but making his head hurt, sat down at his organ, and slaved away at his opera for hours.

Too afraid to ask what had happened or what he had found out, I retreated to my bedroom and spread out scores of his discarded music I had been gathering for the last two and a half weeks, imagining lyrics for the unfinished pieces, and listened to the brief and haunting bursts of music from the organ as inspiration hit Erik.

Performances of _Il Muto_ would begin in another three days, and I was beginning to fear Erik would do something drastic. I woke up in the middle of the night after the day he came back from the surface to the sound of footsteps in the central room, and when I slipped out to investigate I found him pacing back and forth, back and forth, a look of intense concentration on the unmasked half of his face and muttering indiscernible things.

I crept to his side, picking my cloak up off the back of a chair and wrapping it around myself – our lair grew freezing at night, with most of the candles extinguished – and he didn't even notice I was there until I asked quietly, "Erik?"

He whirled around like someone was attacking him, and I let out a yelp and retreated a few paces, startled by the suddenness of his motion, and fell backwards. The look in his eyes softened as he realized there was nobody behind him who intended him any ill will, and he let out a ragged sigh. "Selim," he said, offering me his hand, which I took. He pulled me to my feet. "What are you doing up? It is very late."

I let out a shaky laugh; my heart was still pounding from the shock he'd given me. "I was coming out here to ask you the same. Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not tonight," he said darkly, releasing my hand. I tried not to feel dejected. "It appears my instructions are being ignored."

I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand. My brain was slow in figuring out what he meant; it took a few moments to recall he had sent a set of instructions to the managers – Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, if I recalled correctly – of the _Opera Populaire_ concerning casting for _Il Muto_. "How is that?"

"That dreadful prima donna seems to have thrown another of her fits; those two fools are bowing to her incessant whims _yet again_. I did warn them…" he set to pacing again. I got the feeling he was devising several plans; each that, carried out, would bring catastrophe. I supposed he was attempting to find an act that would be chaotic enough to prove his point. "The key is to ensure the spoiled diva _cannot_ sing," he muttered. "But that surely won't be enough…"

"Can I help at all?" It pained me to offer, because I knew I would be helping to destroy another person if he took me up on it, but it made my chest ache to see him like this – upset and struck with insomnia over something outside his control.

He paused and looked at me with a thoughtful eye. "Perhaps," he said softly. "Selim… here's a question for you. What would irritate a person's vocal chords enough that they would find themselves unable to sing a complex opera?"

He knew the answer, I could see it in his eyes. So why was he quizzing me on this stuff? I didn't care. Still, I gave it a shot. "Um… honey, vinegar, salt?" I guessed half-heartedly. "I'm not entirely sure."

He smirked. "Vinegar, correct. I know not where you pulled the other two answers from. The complete answer would be vinegar and lemon juice. And now that you are aware of that, I rather think I _do_ have a task for you."

* * *

My knees shook when presented with the prospect of navigating the boat alone. "What do you mean you _aren't coming_?" I asked rather shrilly, staring at Erik in disbelief. My mask was clutched tightly in my left hand. "I have to pilot that thing myself?" (_That thing_ being the boat.) "You do know I'm probably going to fall out and drown, don't you? You saw the way I got out of it the other day. Knee-deep in water! And you want me to navigate it _all alone_?"

"You'll be fine, I'm sure. It's quite simple." And that was that. Subject closed. "Once you arrive at the central tunnel, turn at the fifth opening in the wall to your left. That will lead you straight to the diva's quarters. Tell me what you are to do."

My mind was still half-occupied with thinking about the boat, and my teeth chattered a little as I replied, "Um… find the bottles with the red liquid that she keeps. She has two. Take one and leave the other. Go back to the central tunnel and keep going two—"

"—three," he interrupted me.

I nodded. "Yes. Um, three tunnels more to the right, which will take me to the kitchen. Find the vinegar and take the bottle, and two lemons." I looked at him feebly for confirmation. "Is that right?"

"Correct. Though I should add that two lemons is merely a suggestion; by all means, take more if they keep a plethora." He slung a leather bag around my shoulders as he spoke, which I would use to keep my collected items.

"All right," I mumbled, glancing at the boat again. My knees felt weak. "So, remind me why you aren't coming?"

"I have my own preparations to make. Put your mask on," he ordered, and I obeyed. It had been a few days since I had last worn it. I had decided that, since Erik showed no outward signs of disgust or the like by my scars when I was near him, I didn't need it when it was only us two. I half-wished he would remove his in the same manner, but I also felt that, somehow, that would shatter my illusion.

"Can I ride Caesar?" I asked on a whim. I just thought about that horse, alone and probably itching for a chance to stretch his legs. "Just to the stairs?"

He didn't hesitate to reply, to my shock. "I don't see why not."

That question answered, I took a long, deep breath, and clutched the side of the boat. It rocked and I grit my teeth. It was a boat, for God's sake. Surely I could get into a boat. Feeling my heart rate accelerate, I sprang into it before I lost my nerve, and more or less fell into the craft. It was a graceless and rather pathetic motion, but at least I had gotten in without dousing any part of myself in the lake. As I tried to stand, the boat rocking beneath me, I got the feeling Erik was trying not to laugh. "Allow me," he offered, holding the boat as I caught my balance. Even then I fell over again.

"I looked up at him in exasperation. "You still think this is a good idea?"

"I must admit, I'm beginning to have my doubts," he replied amusedly.

I got to my feet and Erik passed me the pole I'd use to navigate the boat. "Push away from the walls, that's very important," he advised as he untied the boat and threw the rope into the boat, into the spot where I usually sat while he navigated. My breath caught in my chest. "When you reach the central tunnel, don't forget to tie up the boat, or else you'll find yourself stranded."

"Duly noted," I gasped, letting out a yelp as the boat rocked dangerously, gliding away from our lair. Erik hit the lever that raised the gate.

"Calm down," he called after me. "You'll find that will help immensely."

"All right," I answered, though probably too quietly for him to hear. I was a little preoccupied with begging God to make my journey a success and not let me drown or anything similar. I took a few deep breaths and stuck the pole into the water, pushing off on the floor of the lake. The boat teetered and I did my best not to panic, centering myself.

"Remember; three tunnels to the right, not two," I heard Erik's voice echoing off the walls from the lair behind me. It was shaking with subdued mirth.

"Got it," I called back, and then directed all my attention to piloting the boat.

The journey seemed longer than ever to me. I tried to create some sound in the silence by singing, trying to recreate the song Erik had sung the last time I was in the boat. I warped the words more for myself than anything.

"_I've let my mind make the journey to his strange new world,_

_Left all thoughts of the life I've always known._

_I have fallen out of the world of light!_

_I belong… to his music if the night_…"

There were more lyrics I devised, but they were weak and I cared not to remember them. They paled in comparison to the splendor of his. The boat swayed beneath me, but I had gotten control of its movement. I was still nervous about getting out of it, and flat out terrified of getting back into it – which would require that I untie it first and then get inside – but there would be a certain gratification once my mission succeeded. I was doing something that would make Erik happy. I had never seen him truly smile. I wanted that more than almost anything else.

After what seemed an eternity, I approached the ledge of the central tunnel. I very nearly had a heart attack when the boat bumped against it, and I pitched myself onto solid ground before I had the chance to lose my balance and topple into the lake. I remembered almost too late that I had to tie the boat up, and grabbed it barely in time. Two seconds more and I would have had to swim to retrieve it. I yanked it back to the ledge and used the rope from the boat to tie it to a post Erik had installed for this purpose.

I sat back against the wall and sighed, hardly unable to believe I had made it without catastrophe befalling me. I shut my eyes, wondering if Erik would even care about me if I drowned, if he would feel guilty for sending me out alone like this. Maybe he would only be irritated that I never came back with his boat and that he'd have to fulfill the errand he'd given to me himself. That thought made me very sad, ripping a small hole in my chest.

I pushed my hair back out of my face and cleared my throat, clambering to my feet. I couldn't dwell on things like that; I'd drive myself mad. I only had to focus on my assigned task. When I stood, Caesar, tied up, let out a soft whinny and stuffed his muzzle into my shoulder. I giggled and patted his neck. "Hey, boy," I whispered. It was going to feel so magnificent, being on horseback again. I felt bad for him – he was always saddled. I promised myself I would unsaddle him when we returned here. It wasn't good for a horse to always be saddled like this.

I untied him and noticed my footsteps grew softer. I looked down and smiled. A thin layer of hay was scattered across the stone floor. Madame Giry must have been bringing him more food since I last mentioned him. Or maybe it was Erik, who had come up yesterday. Either way, the realization brought a sense of relief to me.

I checked his cinch, making sure it was tight enough that the saddle wouldn't slip and send me falling off of him, and mounted Caesar with much more grace than I ever used getting into the boat – it was a swift, simple motion that I had done many times when I was younger. It came back to me more easily than I'd thought it would.

The rocking motion of the horse's gait put me both at ease and returned slightly a sense of grief to me. It brought back memories of my mother – bittersweet recollections of the days we would indulge ourselves, making a trek of about six miles to see a man who was always happy to let us take his horses out for a bit of exercise. Those treks had stopped in the months before I turned fourteen, when my mother grew too sick to do much of anything but stay in bed. She had missed it terribly, as I had, and she kept promising me we'd go again when she got well.

She never did get well.

It was a short ride – less than ten minutes, hardly more than five – but I felt satisfied with it nonetheless. When we came to the stairs I dismounted and tied him back up again. "Sorry, buddy," I whispered in his ear as he snorted and pawed the ground in dissatisfaction. "I'll be back in a little while." I wanted dearly to take him outside, find a field, and let him run.

I got up the stairs and then set to staring intently at the wall, counting the indentations of hidden tunnels until I reached the fifth one on my left side. My heart pounding a little harder than normal and growing slightly short of breath with nerves, I slipped into the tunnel, which turned sharply several times. The door at the end of it was wooden and very small. I opened it before I had time to panic over what I was doing.

I emerged and immediately found myself face to face with something soft and furry. I swatted the fur shawl away and looked around. I appeared to be in a small closet filled with heavy dresses of satin and silk and God knows what other expensive fabrics. And a lot of fur. There must have been about twenty dead animals worth of pelts in this closet.

The door I'd come through was very well concealed; with the way the wooden panels of the wall were set up, you would have to know it was there to see it. I left it slightly ajar, because I didn't know if it could be opened both ways and didn't fancy being stranded in this room if it couldn't.

I listened for any signs of life in the room, and heard nothing. Trembling slightly, I slipped through the closet doors and found myself in the quarters belonging to a woman who was very much in love with herself.

The room was decorated with pinks and golds, and it seemed that everywhere I looked there was a tribute to one of several of Carlotta's past roles. She had framed many posters advertising different operas she starred in, and had portraits painted of her in costume. Her bed was unmade and swathed in pink silk, and her dresser displayed an array of scattered pink ribbons and jewelry and makeup. I had never worn makeup once in my life and here this woman had enough to stock a drawer full. There was a large mahogany box on a small table next to a fainting couch near the door and I went to it, opening it up and finding two elaborate glass bottles placed neatly inside pink cushioned lining. They had golden tips and rubber tubes with spheres on the end so that when you constricted them the liquid in the bottle would come out as a fine mist. I selected the jar with the least amount of red solution inside and shut the box, wondering if Carlotta would miss it.

The first part of my mission complete, I took a moment to indulge myself, scanning Carlotta's collection of various creams and powders. I began to wonder if one of the flesh colored ones could hide my scars. I bit my bottom lip and fingered the mask covering the majority of my face. Would hiding the scars… I don't know, endear me to Erik?

I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard a shrill, thickly Italian-accented voice just outside the door. "Andiamo! Why you always forget my things, huh?!"

Oh, shit. If that wasn't Carlotta, I don't know who on earth it could be. I snatched up a small bottle of flesh colored liquid and dove back into the closet just before I heard the door open. I was almost afraid to move, for fear Carlotta and her companions would notice the clothes in her closet moving.

"Fetch my boxy, bring my boxy!" Carlotta demanded. I peered through a thin veneer of lace to see who it was she was with. A rather rotund maid who seemed less than happy to comply. "Quick, quick, quick! I have rehearsal!" Carlotta demanded. She was stroking a black poodle adorned with several pink bows in her arms. She was wearing – big surprise – pink, which clashed horribly with her red hair.

The maid lunged for the box I had taken the bottle clutched tightly in my hand from not three minutes before, picked it up, and brought it to the spoiled diva. I realized they were going to open it and discover the missing bottle, and decided that, whether they saw the fluttering cloth or not, I was getting the hell out of there.

I scrambled for the door and hurled myself through it, shutting it behind me and collapsing, my breaths short. I could hear Carlotta's muffled cry of fury through the door, and she began to speak in rapid Italian. I swallowed hard and stood up, clutching the side of the wall for support as my heart rate slowly returned to the way God intended. I stuffed the bottle of red solution and the smaller one of flesh colored liquid into the satchel hanging from my shoulders. The weight of the bottles were pressed against my hip.

"Three tunnels to the right, three tunnels to the right," I mumbled to myself as I went back down the narrow passageway to the central tunnel. This mission was taking a serious jab at my nerves. I was too jittery and too jumpy and my heart felt like it would explode for reasons entirely unrelated to Erik and my infatuation with him.

Three tunnels to the right later, I emerged from a door hidden behind the oven in the kitchen, and had to slide along the wall to get to the kitchen itself. I imagined that, when the oven was fired up, that door would have been a dangerous place to come through.

There was nobody in the kitchen, though I didn't want to try my luck by meandering. The vinegar took me a while to locate, since I hadn't actually seen vinegar for over four years, but I faintly remembered the scent and, after sniffing the contents of several different bottles, a few which made my eyes water and my nostrils burn, I found the vinegar. The lemons were much easier to find; they were sitting in plain view in a bowl on one of the counters, and I took four of them, leaving six others. I also nicked a couple of apples and a knife to cut them with.

The leather satchel even heavier on my hip, I slipped back into the space behind the oven and slid back to the door, which I proceeded through at once.

My nerves somewhat calmed after my general success in the kitchen, I made my way back through the tunnel chopping bits off one of the apples and enjoying the sweet flavor. I hadn't had an apple in quite a long time. When I reached Caesar I took the time to lean against the wall, cutting wedges of apples for him to enjoy, laughing when his muzzle tickled my palm as he ate the slices out of my hand. Three large wedges for him, one small for me; that was how it went, until both apples were gone, including the cores, which Caesar had very much enjoyed.

The horse began to nudge at my hand, and I grinned and held them out so he could see there was no more for him. "They're gone," I told him, chuckling as he snorted in my face. I interpreted that as indignation. "Sorry," I apologized jokingly as I untied him. "I'll bring you more another time, all right?" I mounted him. "Let's go." Clicking my tongue, I urged him into a walk, and then a trot. His hoof steps echoed off the stone walls, but I didn't care. This felt fantastic. And when we reached the boat, I turned him around and rode him back to the stairs. I got him to lope for a few seconds at one point, but his footfalls became much too heavy and the echo caused was tremendous, so I eased him back into a walk and we returned to the boat.

I dismounted him reluctantly and tied him up, patting his side as I began to undo his cinch. I thought about Erik as I unsaddled Caesar, wondering what he was going to do with the things I had collected for him. Well, I supposed the _what_ was obvious. He was going to add vinegar and lemon juice to that red liquid of Carlotta's. _When_ he was going to give it back to her and _how_ remained a great mystery to me.

I deposited Caesar's saddle and blanket on a pile of bricks close to where I tied him up and turned to the boat. An odd calm settled over me. I wasn't worried about getting into it or navigating it anymore. It was just a boat and I was just a person. It was not a craft ready to turn me over and watch me drown, no more than I was weak child willing to drown in the lake.

I untied the boat, holding it with one hand so it wouldn't drift away, threw the rope into the boat, and hopped into it, thrusting the pole into the water until it hit the bottom of the lake and steadying myself, using it as a support. It was by no means graceful, but at least I stayed on my feet the entire time.

I thought things were going exceptionally well. I was navigating the boat with few mistakes and it wasn't rocking as much as it had on the journey to the central tunnel, but I supposed it was just conserving its energy. I was three quarters of the way back to the lair when I lost my balance as the boat rocked dangerously, and like an idiot, I took a few steps to steady myself. It had the opposite effect – the boat turned over in a whirl of panic and water in my face before I was entirely submerged in the freezing lake. My throat closed up and I began to tread the water, hyperventilating a little bit as I recovered from the shock.

The satchel had fallen off my shoulders. As I wiped the water out of my eyes I saw the lemons floating on the surface and realized the satchel had more than likely sunk. "_Damn_ it!" I half-hissed, half-shrieked, swimming to the boat. God, I hated swimming. It reminded me of that day I almost drowned when I was seven.

It took me much of my strength to return the boat to its proper position. I snatched at the rope, which was drifting just below the surface of the water like a dead snake, and shoved it into the boat piece by piece. The pole was floating some ten feet to my right, the lemons five to my left. I went after the lemons, pitching them into the boat one by one, and then I realized with all the moving around I had been doing I had more than likely lost my bearings and would have to use a lot more of my energy in finding the satchel.

Letting out a cry of frustration, I plunged beneath the surface and propelled myself to the bottom, searching the stone floor of the lake with my hands until my lungs burned from lack of oxygen. I used the lake's floor to push myself back to the surface, cutting through the water upward much faster than the time it had taken to get to the bottom, took a deep gulp of air, swam a few feet farther, and pitched myself underwater again.

It took seven more attempts until my hands finally clutched at the soaked leather, which felt slimy to touch. I tried to get a hold on it the first time, but couldn't, and I went back to the surface to refill my lungs before diving back down and making another attempt. I went after the strap the second time, slung it around my shoulders, and hurt my left foot kicking myself off the bottom of the lake that final time.

I felt around inside the satchel to make sure the bottles were all still there and intact. I found only two, but it was just as well, because the two bottles were the ones that contained the red solution and the vinegar. I supposed this was fate's way of telling me I was not to hide my scars. I tossed the satchel into the boat and went after the pole. It was difficult swimming with it in hand, but I made do, reached the boat once more, stuck the pole into it, and pulled myself back into the boat.

I lay in the hull for several minutes on my back, the rope biting into my back and the pole cutting at my right shoulder blade. I stared up at the stone ceiling and caught my breath, trying not to think about my aching foot. I'd probably succeeded in bruising it horribly.

Now that I was out of the water, it hit me just how horribly cold it was. I also realized my mask was gone.

At once, I scrambled to my knees and looked out across the water. There it was; twenty feet away, floating in the spot I had plunged down at nine times, drifting like three-fourths of a phantom face. I groaned and almost screamed in pure, unadulterated frustration and even contemplated leaving it there. But then I imagined asking Erik to make me a new one, and damn, did I _not_ want to have that conversation with him.

So I jumped back into the frigid lake that made my entire body stiff and went to retrieve the mask. The water made my dress heavy and I was grateful I wasn't wearing my cloak, because what a dead weight that would have been. My limbs ached fiercely as I pulled myself back into the boat at last and put my mask back on. It didn't stick very well on my drenched face and I just let it slide to the wooden base of the boat. I sat there for another several minutes, shivering and regaining a bit of my strength. Eventually I realized I was going to come down with a cold or something worse if I just sat there like that, and since I didn't fancy dying of pneumonia I stood back up, picked up the pole, and navigated the boat the rest of the way to the lair, my teeth chattering to fill the silence rather than singing.

I slid through the open gate and the boat came to a lurching stop when I hit the stone floor of our lair. Still shivering, I hopped out and tied the boat to a wooden post, wincing when I put too much weight on my sore left foot.

Erik was sitting at his table with the miniature stage, working on a long piece of rope. He was tying it into what looked sinisterly like a noose. He looked up when he heard me clambering out of the boat and paused. Then he set down his rope and stood. He snatched up a blanket and came to me. "What on earth happened?" he asked, draping the blanket around my shoulders and head, rubbing my arms.

"Boat tipped," I mumbled, trying to wring out my hair. "I had to swim to get all the supplies back. They're just back in the boat—" I turned to the watercraft, intending to retrieve the lemons and the bottles I had collected, but he held my arm and pushed me towards my bedroom instead.

"I'll take care of it," he said sternly. "Go dry off. You'll catch a cold like that."

I did as he said for two reasons. Firstly, I was freezing and wanted nothing more than to change into dry clothing and rub the water out of my hair. Secondly, I was pretty much going to do whatever he told me for the rest of my life.

I threw on a the dress that wasn't soaked in lake water and used the blanket Erik had draped around me in lieu of a towel to vigorously rub water out of my hair. I sighed and ran my fingers through my damp brown locks, trying to make them lie flat so I didn't look like some wild woman from the forest. That all done, I went back out into the main part of the lair, limping slightly. I would have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. I might have even bruised the bone.

Erik wasn't in plain sight, but I could hear him in the kitchen that I think I had seen him use all of twice since I came to live here. I'd only seen him eat a few times; bread or cheese he brought back from the surface.

I could assume I had used the stove more in the last three weeks than Erik had used it in his twenty years of living here. He had an abundance of spices in his cupboards that I liked to experiment with, and the dried vegetables and meats he kept stocked with them made some pretty wonderful soups, when I got the spices right. I always left the pot whatever I'd made on a small table in the kitchen, and when I'd check it the next morning it would either be entirely gone or the contents seriously depleted, so I could assume Erik had been enjoying my cooking separately from me. At least I was being of some use to him that way.

I went into the kitchen to see what was going on, and at once a horrible whistling noise cut through the silence. I clapped my hands over my ears and tried to shout over the noise, "What on earth are you doing in here?"

Erik snatched a teakettle off the stove top and the whistling died. "I can't have you catching cold," he said vaguely, pulling a cup out of one of his cupboards and pouring the contents of the teakettle into it. It appeared to be tea. "I have another task for you." He pressed the cup into my hands, extinguished the fire in the stove, and set the teakettle down on the stovetop. "Drink that."

I sipped at the cup. It _was_ tea, very weak tea. Of course, the fact that it was still so hot it nearly burned my mouth might have prevented me from savoring the taste of it. "Thank you," I rasped. That tea had come very close to blistering my throat. "What do I need to do now?"

He indicated the table in the kitchen, upon which sat the bottle of red liquid I'd stolen from Carlotta's quarters, the bottle of vinegar, and the four lemons. "Take Carlotta's spray and boil it with lemon juice and vinegar, then replace the solution in her bottle."

"All right," I said, nodding. I began to move towards the stove, but he grasped my wrist.

"Not today," he said. It seemed to me as though his mind was elsewhere. "Tomorrow. For now, go practice the Mozart sonata I gave you. God knows it could use work."

"Yes," I said, scurrying out of the kitchen and to the piano. It was just as well. I'd rather be at the piano than the stove anyway.

* * *

**~Erik~**

Something was very wrong. He had been genuinely concerned when Selim had returned, soaked to the bone. He shouldn't have cared nearly as much as he had. Where had the urge to send her to her room to dry off come from? What had possessed him to brew tea for her? He kept trying to convince himself it was because she was a pawn, a piece in his game of chess, and preserving his pieces was essential. But the doubt was still in his mind, and there was a hole in his chest that refused to fill whenever he saw her.

He threw himself into the belief that the hole was caused by his longing for Christine. Because there could, of course, be no other explanation. His world revolved around Christine. Selim was just an insignificant piece caught in his orbit. That was all.

And yet he still smiled listening to her slow, clumsy piano playing, playing that was getting better by the hour with his instruction.

* * *

**Fin! That's chapter six, I hope you enjoyed it! I had serious writer's block with this one. Took me forever to get the words onto the pages. So, show your appreciation and support by reviewing! I've said it before and I'll say it again. I need reviews to live!**

**Thanks for reading and I love you all!**

**Phantom, out!**


	7. Remember, Regret

**Back with Chapter 7! I must say, I am enjoying writing this immensely. It's getting easier to write about Erik, but harder at the same time since falling in love with someone who isn't Christine is out of character for him. But, considering that's the objective of this story, I'm making do. Hope you all think it sounds plausible.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the following. **_**The Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables**_**, this computer, a smidgen of sanity… Selim, however, is all mine. You can't have her!**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**~Selim~**

My foot was bruised, and it hurt. I stood at the stove the day after the boat-tipping incident, stirring a pot filled with Carlotta's red solution that smelled of something sickeningly fruity and a little bit like ginger, wincing every time I stood on my left foot at just the wrong angle. Erik was at the organ, as I assumed he had been for much of the night, but he hadn't played so much as a single note. I don't think he had a whole lot of inspiration at the moment, not when he was so irritated by the opera house's managers' refusal to follow his orders.

I sighed, giving the pot a quick, vigorous stir when it started bubbling. Figuring that was close enough to boiling, I dumped in a good portion of the vinegar I'd stolen from the kitchen and grimaced at the scent, which was quite suddenly overwhelming.

"How is it coming?" Erik's voice asked me from very close behind.

I jolted. I hadn't heard him leave the organ or come into the kitchen. I was either entirely out of it or he was simply that silent when he moved. "F-fine," I breathed, swirling the wooden spoon around in the mixture. The vinegar began to break apart and dissolve. "You're through working on your opera for today?"

"The music does not come when I not in the proper frame of mind," he said darkly, picking up one of the lemons and turning it over in his hands. "What I require is… a distraction."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I felt his eyes on me. I shivered. "What sort of a distraction?" I asked, not sure what to expect. Maybe he wanted to create the solution that would render Carlotta's voice useless himself. I would gladly hand it over to him. That would certainly keep him occupied, if that was what he wanted.

"What indeed," he said under his breath, moving to my side and staring at me. I looked away beneath his gaze, feeling my heart start to ache. I wished there were a way to prevent my chest from aching the way it did when he was around, but I had not yet found a way to accomplish that particular goal. "I would like to hear about your past," he said after a few moments of silence.

I paused. That was the last thing I had been expecting him to say. Why my past? I wasn't exciting. I had done nothing noteworthy. I was merely an orphan and former street urchin. "No you don't," I mumbled, picking up a knife.

"You're mistaken. I think you are exactly the distraction I require," he said, setting the lemon down next to its kin.

"You can't be that bored." I sliced a lemon in half. It smelled heavenly. I love the scent of lemons. "I'm not that exciting." Evidently. Because Erik pays me no mind unless I'm botching piano notes or aiding him in his endeavors to win Christine. I was growing a little freaked out by the sudden interest he was showing in me because of that.

"Selim, I rescued you from a man trying to cut open your face," he pointed out, sounding amused as he seated himself in one of the chairs at the small table. "I rather think you're more interesting than you believe."

"Do you?" I asked quietly, humbled by his argument. Blushing, I began to crush the lemon half over the pot. Faintly yellow juice began to dribble over my fingers and into the solution. "All right. Fine. What would you like to hear about?"

"Anything. Your parents, how about."

I angled myself in such a way that I could see him as I stirred the pot, my back to the stove and my arm extended so I could persist in rotating my wrist to keep the solution from bubbling over. I'd add more lemon juice in a bit. "Well… my mother was British. My father's mother was German and his father French. My father came to Britain on business and met my mother. She was looking for a way out. Her family was so very poor. And she was young, only seventeen, and sickly, and she just wanted something more. My father was… exciting to her. He was twenty-four. They were married after barely a week and she moved back to Paris with him."

"Your age," Erik interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"Your mother was your age when she married."

Oh, my god. I didn't want to talk about that, be reminded that my mother's life had been so short, that in another life I myself would, right now, be courted. If my mother hadn't died… I might be a wife, or somebody's fiancée. There was a boy who lived a few streets over that I had always been friendly with. We were fond of each other. His name was Jean, and only now that I think about it, he wasn't bad looking. His parents were wealthier than we were, and my mother mentioned once, when I was thirteen, that perhaps we would find ourselves of the same household one day. I had forgotten that. If she had lived, I might have married Jean. I haven't seen him in three years, almost four. I'd almost even forgotten about him.

"She was young," I said, swallowing back the lump in my throat that accompanied the memories. I turned back to the pot and relieved the other half of the lemon I'd cut open of its juice. "And her youth made her blind. He was a drunk, and… she didn't want to leave him by the time she realized it because she was pregnant. And she wouldn't leave him even after I was born. Even though he… beat me, and beat her. He wasn't a good man. The tiniest things set him off. I left a toy in front of the door. Mother hadn't quite finished mending the tear in his shirt. There weren't enough onions in his soup. I can't remember a time he didn't smell like liquor and wasn't beating me or striking my mother. And we couldn't defend each other because he would turn on us, and that would just mean both of us got a beating that night. I… I still have scars."

"What happened to him, then?" Erik asked. He had the tenor of a person trying to be casual, but had been rendered suddenly uncomfortable by the situation. I understood. Hearing about abuse is never pleasant. "Obviously he's no longer a part of your life."

"Oh, no," I agreed, slicing another lemon open. I turned around again to look at Erik. "He disappeared when I was eight. He went out one day to work and just… didn't come back. We never knew what happened to him for sure. I wasn't convinced he was really even gone until my ninth birthday. I was always afraid he'd come back one day. Sometimes I imagined fates for him. Maybe he got into a bar fight and hit his head so hard he didn't remember anything about his life, let alone that he had a wife and child. Perhaps he ran off with one of the prostitutes Mother just knew he was shagging. She would always bitterly tell me that it was better those whores than her. I didn't know what that meant at the time, of course. But I guess it's most likely that he got so drunk one day that he fell into a ditch and died. Still, no matter what happened to him, my mother and I were better off without him."

"And good riddance," Erik muttered under his breath.

I couldn't help but crack a smile. "Yes. It sounds horrible, but… it truly was. And after that, we were happy. I was friends with some of the neighborhood girls. Antoinette, Madeline, and… Odette. Those were their names. I was the oldest, and I admit that I liked the authority that came with it. Antoinette and Madeline were twins, a year younger than me, and Odette younger than me by several months. There was also a boy named Jean who liked to come have adventures with me, and only me, never the other girls. It was only me he liked. He was a little over a year older than me. He had only sisters and he was the youngest, and none of his older sisters wanted to go on adventures with him because their dresses would get dirty if they went out. I was just old enough to enjoy the more complex nature of our games and of low enough class that I didn't care if I got mud on my boots. We had such fun. One time we dug up one of his neighbors' flower gardens searching for buried treasure." I laughed. "Oh, to be nine years old again…"

"What of your mother?" Erik asked. The corners of his lips were twitching, which caused a feeling of elation to settle over me. The endeavors of children are so foolish that they can even amuse the Phantom of the Opera.

"She was my best friend, easily," I said. I was afraid talking about Mother would make me cry, so I turned around and began to pay more attention to the lemons. "She worked in a factory not far away from our house, and the pay was decent. We always had food, at least. She was remarkably thrifty. I reckon I wouldn't have survived nearly as well on my own had it not been for her and her lessons on how to save a few sous here and there. We liked to walk down a few miles every two weeks or so and give a man's horses some exercise. We invented our own endings to various fairytales and spent hours by the fire in the winter mending clothes for neighbors so we could pay for the firewood, and pay for Christmas. Christmas was always the best. We'd buy a really small turkey and share it, and we always had some really cheap wine. She let me have it because there was hardly any liquor in it. And we'd sing carols at the top of our lungs until one of the neighbors came over and told us to stop."

I cleared my throat and wiped at my eyes with my sleeve, since my hands were covered in lemon juice. It was very difficult to speak of the happy years of my life, for some reason. Maybe because they were over. "So, anyway… we were happy. So happy. I loved her more than anything. The worst day of my life was the day she died. Tuberculosis took her. I was barely fourteen." I took a deep breath. "And since I was so young, the government seized the house. I tried saving some of our things… but they didn't let me keep anything. I had one of my mother's necklaces in my hands and they just… took it from me. I have nothing to remember my mother by but my memories themselves." I sighed. "Sometimes I fear they're not enough."

I could feel Erik's eyes on me. "You're crying," he said quietly. It wasn't a question, but there was a bit of shock in his tone.

I pushed my hair out of my face and wiped at my eyes again. "I suppose I am," I said thickly, cutting open the final lemon. My hands were shaking. "It's a little difficult to talk about." I fumbled with one of the halves as I tried to lift it and it fell onto the stovetop. "Damn it," I muttered, reaching out for it, but Erik's hand got there first. He was standing directly behind me.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said quietly. "I'll take care of the rest of this. Go to the piano and practice."

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you," I said shakily, slipping out of the kitchen. Oh, my god, he'd been so close to me just now that our bodies were pressed together. I was tingling all over.

**~Erik~**

There it went again. That strange feeling of concern that he couldn't get rid of no matter how desperately he tried. He didn't want to feel anything toward anyone but Christine, and yet Selim had some sort of gravitational pull on him. He couldn't stop caring about what she did or how she was. He even felt guilty about using her as a distraction from his infuriating inability to write his music, because it had ultimately depressed her. He'd even made her cry.

He listened for the sounds of the piano as he crushed the lemon Selim had dropped before he'd sent her away over the pot in the stove. Selim really had been doing a superb job of helping him in his quest to win Christine Daae's heart. What was he to do with her once he had succeeded? Perhaps Madame Giry could take her. The thought of forcing Selim to part so suddenly unsettled him, but it was Christine who was his goal and he couldn't let anything stand in the way of that.

The sounds of the piano, somewhat choppy, drifted into the small kitchen, slowly growing smoother as Selim gained confidence in herself and got into the rhythm of the piece. She was getting better. Most of her notes were played at the right beats, but her tempo was much slower than usual. He supposed she had been shaken by the memories she had revisited when speaking of her mother.

He stirred the solution a few times, and deciding it was enough, removed the pot from the stove and stifled the flames that had been flickering beneath it, setting it aside to cool before he returned it to Carlotta's ornate glass bottle. His plan was unfolding perfectly.

That done, he went out to oversee Selim's piano playing. He didn't expect to find much fault there; she'd been playing the correct notes for the past two days and it was only her speed that needed to be adjusted.

It became very clear to him why Selim's piano playing was so slow with one look at her. She was trembling violently, and appeared to be thinking very hard about which keys she was playing. Unsure of what he should do, or if there was anything he even could do, Erik watched her in complete silence.

Her fingers slipped. She hit a B rather than C sharp. She recovered well, but fumbled again three measures later. And then the piece fell apart. She seemed to be trying to play the proper notes, but her fingers refused to go where she wanted them to, and finally she began slamming her hands repeatedly on the keys, creating horrible, disharmonious chords two octaves apart. Erik made at once for her, to get her to stop because she would ruin his piano, but he hadn't quite reached her when she froze, sat back on the bench, and buried her face in her hands. Her body racked with sobs she was trying to choke back and her breaths came out in short gasps, as though her lungs were not working properly.

Now Erik truly did not know what to do. He'd never been in the presence of someone who was crying the way she was before. Or rather, been in the presence of someone aware he was there when they were crying the way she was. He'd seen plenty of people crying from his various hiding places. None of them were of interest to him. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention. Then maybe he would know what he should do to get Selim to stop. He felt as though something was tugging at his heart.

He lifted a hand, thinking he might touch her shoulder or anything, but hesitated. What if that was wrong? What if he shouldn't do anything at all? What if it was best to let her cry out whatever sadness had suddenly overcome her?

Luckily enough for him, Selim made the decision herself. Before Erik had the chance to do anything at all, she stood up, wiping sloppily at her eye and apparently trying to hide her face behind her hair. "I'm sorry," she apologized in a choked whisper. Erik wasn't quite sure what she was apologizing for. "I just… can't today," she said, turning around and walking at a faster pace than she usually did towards her alcove. She slipped past the curtain and out of his sight.

Erik let out a long, ragged breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. He glanced at the piano to distract himself from the way his heart throbbed. It didn't help. Her tears dotted some of the keys.

Erik found his mind running through a series of _could haves, should haves_, and _would haves_. It was all highly alarming. What should he have done? What could have been done to prevent Selim from crying in the first place?

And then the most startling question of them all. What would he have done if it were Christine?

Comforted her, of course, no matter what it was she was crying over. If his Christine was distressed he'd stay by her side, holding her until her tears stopped, and then he'd have murdered whatever it was that had caused her to cry, be it man or beast or inanimate object.

And there was his answer. That was what he should have done for Selim. Or at the very least, he shouldn't have hesitated to put his hand on her shoulder. Perhaps then she wouldn't have fled to her bedroom. Now she was crying all alone with no one to reassure her that things were all right.

Should he go to her now, then? Do what he should have done, perhaps a little belated, but still necessary? He could. It would only take him a few strides and he'd be in her alcove. But what would he say? And it wasn't as though he could murder what had made her cry, when it was her memories that were causing her such great distress.

He knew very little of the grief caused by memories. His memories before coming to the _Opera Populaire_ consisted entirely of loneliness, solitude, the horror experienced when his mother gave him over to the gypsy caravan to display as a child of the devil, and the pain of the beatings he endured at the hands of one of the gypsy men. Since coming to the opera house, his memories were more of solitude, but never of suffering. And then he saw his Christine for the first time and had something to live for, something to look forward to, something to cherish.

His mother had not loved him, nor he her, so when she had given him up the feelings accompanying the incident, for him, had been more akin to horror at what she'd done to her own child and fear of what came next rather than anguish. He had no happy memories to compare his bad memories to, and therein lay his problem understanding Selim.

She had known happiness, love, friendship, and family. And, losing all of that magnified the grief she was experiencing. She had nothing of that any longer. She had lost things of great value to her and there was no way to return her to the life she once knew.

So how could Erik hope to comfort her? He did not understand in the slightest the emotional torment she was suffering through, and he knew it. He wouldn't know how to begin reassuring her, and while the thought of holding her seemed strangely appealing to him, his obsession with Christine Daae pulled him away from the thought.

After a considerable amount of time spent fighting with himself over what he should do next, he sat down at the piano, wiped Selim's tears of the keys, and began to play. His piano playing always brought her to his side, seemed to comfort her. Perhaps that was all he could do for her at the moment.

And although he went through several pieces of music, Selim never emerged.

**~Selim~**

I felt so stupid. I don't even know what happened back at the piano. I was fine, sort of. Just shaky. I wanted to play the Mozart piece so badly, and I wanted to play it properly, but it just didn't work. It had started off somewhat sketchy and gotten a little better, but something just… snapped. My brain and my hands stopped working together. No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't hit the right keys, and the more notes I missed the more I lost control of myself until all I wanted to do was create as much chaos in the world as there was swirling around in my brain, my heart, my soul. So I'd slammed on the keys until I realized nothing was going to relieve me of any of my memories, and I'd lost it entirely. I couldn't function anymore. All I could do was sit there and sob, even though Erik was standing right behind me and was obviously put out by my sudden, uncontrollable burst of emotions.

What Erik must think of me right now… I had scared him, or something similar. He'd just stood there like a statue, albeit a strangely positioned one. His arm had been outstretched when I'd finally gotten enough of my wits about me to leave the piano. I don't know what he was planning on doing with it. To comfort me would be more than I could hope to ask for. Maybe he wanted to force me to regain control of myself and just play the damned piano piece. But I wouldn't have been able to even if he'd asked me.

How was I going to face him again? I couldn't go out like nothing had just happened. That would probably make things worse. The awkward tension already hanging between us would surely increase. I didn't want that. Should I apologize for losing my mind, however briefly? There was the possibility that could make it worse, too.

I fell backwards into the boat that served as my bed, my feet dangling out the side, as I tried to figure out what I should do. Maybe I should just wait it out. Stay here until tomorrow, give time for the memory of my nervous breakdown to fade a little.

The sound of the piano drifted in through the curtain that separated my alcove from the rest of the lair. It sounded so wonderful to my ears, especially after the cacophony I'd created with the piano twenty minutes or so ago. Erik was playing the Mozart sonata I'd heard him play before, the one that had drawn me out a few days ago and led me to ask him to teach me to play the piano as well. And while the music was beautiful, it also had a hollow tone to it that made me want to curl into a ball and lose myself.

Why was he playing the piano now? Was it to lure me out? I did want to leave this room and listen to it in closer proximity, watch the way Erik's fingers danced across the keys… but I couldn't. I swung my legs into my boat and curled my knees into my chest, burying my face in my pillow and sighing heavily. I would have to apologize for my lapse of control tomorrow. For now, I couldn't face Erik. Not even to go out and listen more closely to the piano music drifting into my alcove.

* * *

I didn't remember falling asleep, which was why waking up from a dream was so disorienting. My eyes were sore and my pillow was damp and my cheeks were wet with tears. Damn it, I _knew_ talking about my mother was going to take some psychological toll on me. I had almost thought I was back in our little house at Christmas and we had just gotten chewed out by the neighbors for singing too loud. We'd been sprawled out in front of our fireplace, throwing kindling into the flames to keep it going and taking turns reading out of a book about a grouchy old man visited by ghosts on Christmas Eve night

I had wanted it to be real.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes before pushing my hair out of my face and letting out a long, shuddery breath. I would obviously not be going back to sleep. The good dreams were worse than any nightmare I could possibly have. It was dreadfully cold. I shivered and looked around for my cloak before I realized it was hanging on the back of a chair near the organ.

I got out of my boat-bed and tiptoed to the curtain I hung as a door to my alcove, careful to avoid the candles still burning in the stand against my wall. I peered out into the central cavern and saw no one, heard nothing. I assumed Erik had retired for the evening and slipped out of my bedroom. Some of the candles had been extinguished for the night and the lair was even colder out in the open. I concentrated on not letting my teeth chatter and silently cursed the fact that I was barefoot as I scurried up to the organ and snatched my cloak off the back of the chair.

I swung it around myself a little too quickly, knocking one of Erik's many knick knacks off its place on the table next to the organ. It clattered to the ground metallically and I flinched, stooping down to snatch it up. It appeared to be some sort of bronze fleur de lis wall ornament. I set it back on the table and sighed as I looked around. Erik certainly had a lot of random items littered throughout the central cavern.

I sat down in the chair I'd taken my cloak off of and stared at the organ. I'd never touched the instrument. Somehow it was too alien to me. It had two rows of keys and made such tremendous, haunting music that I felt nervous about even being close to it, afraid I would accidentally strike a key and break it.

Erik's box of sheet music was sitting on a stand next to the organ, the box that contained every piece of music he'd written for his opera. I was sorely tempted by it. What little I had heard of it was wonderful; haunting, of course, but it did have a way of wedging its way into my soul and sticking with me. But still… if he were to come out and see me rifling through his sheet music, I could only imagine what he'd do. Throw me out and tell me never to return at best; strangle me at the worst. No, I definitely would not open that box.

I sighed and held my head, my elbows on my knees. I was tired, but afraid to sleep. How cruel of my subconscious.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jolted violently. I never hear Erik when he approaches me. He's entirely silent. "What are you doing awake at this time of night?" he asked. I heard the sound of wood scraping against stone, and Erik pulled a chair up next to me and sat down.

Well, at the very least, he had jolted me into temporary alertness. "I can't sleep," I mumbled, straightening my posture. "The dreams are… unbearable."

"I'm not surprised," he said as though he were amused. "The past certainly has a way of coming back to haunt you."

He was entirely correct. "Why are you up, then, if you expected this?" I asked, rubbing my stiff neck and avoiding making eye contact with him. I was still a little ashamed by my conduct earlier at the piano.

"I heard you knock something over and thought perhaps what it was had broken. And, seeing as how you are one of the most accident-prone people I've ever come across, I thought I might come out and make sure you hadn't seriously injured yourself."

Did that mean he cared about my well being, or he was just worried I was going to get blood all over his stone floor? It could go either way. And why did I care, anyway? I had to get over this. Erik will probably never be able to love anyone who isn't Christine. There's no use pining for him. I should stop. I want to stop. But I can't.

"I'm fine," I said, looking down at my lap. If I didn't look at him, maybe I could… numb myself or something. And if I talked to him as little as possible, I could create the illusion that I didn't really like him all that much anyway.

"What's your plan?" Erik asked. That surprised me enough to get me to look up at him. "How do you plan on staying awake?" Erik elaborated. "You already look half-asleep."

He was right about that. The fatigue was returning, and at a rapid pace. "I don't know yet," I mumbled, blushing and looking away again.

**~Erik~**

Erik was, yet again, in a position in which he had no idea what he was doing. First he had upset her by making her talk about her past – which she obviously had not been remotely prepared to do – and now she was losing sleep over it. And it was all his fault. He shouldn't care so much about what it was he had done or how she felt. Or rather, he shouldn't have even cared at all. But he did, and now a damnable, irritating sensation of guilt was festering at his core and he could not get rid of it.

And so, he reverted back to the question he had asked himself too late after Selim's breakdown. What would he do if she were Christine?

The corners of his lips twitched when he thought about things he would_ like_ to do with his Christine rather than what he actually _would_ do. All right, well… maybe he couldn't do _that_.

He knocked his thoughts back into the scope of realistic possibilities and considered his options. Ultimately, he just wanted her to sleep. She was already halfway there, it seemed, but with her resolve it would take a little encouragement. Erik was not good at encouragement, so he would have to try something else.

As for himself, there were three things that sent him to the darkness of sleep. Most of the time it was thoughts of Christine, but there was always pondering over his music to fall back on, and, when he was truly out of options, reading. He enjoyed reading, of course, but thoughts of Christine were so much more enthralling to him, and pondering his opera was a much more involved process.

Music would never work with Selim. Even the slowest lullaby he could play would excite her, and she'd only concentrate harder on listening to the legatos or the half-steps and watching his fingers, considering how long it would be until she could play like that, too. No, music was definitely not an option in this situation.

Maybe he could try giving her a book. Selim was an intelligent child. Surely she would enjoy some literature. And if he gave her a book without a lot of plot to it in the beginning, it would lull her to sleep. He could feign belief it would keep her awake, but in actuality…

It was worth a shot, at any rate. "I believe I might be able to help with that," he said, standing from his chair. "Wait a moment."

She waited. One of her appealing qualities was that she always did exactly what he told her to. Erik liked the obedience. It made her much easier to live with than he had thought it would be when he'd first taken her in. He crossed the central cavern into his bedroom alcove and found a book he had read twice before, so carefully it still looked unopened. He went back out and pressed it into Selim's hands without a word. He didn't know what else he could say.

Her cheeks turned pink. "Thank you," she said quietly, staring down at the book. She had been failing to make eye contact with him quite a bit recently. Maybe she was still upset with him over bringing the dreams upon her. She opened it tentatively, careful not to stress the spine or wrinkle the pages.

His task done, Erik went back into his bedroom and sat down next to the golden swan boat that served as his bed, losing himself in thoughts of many things – of Christine and his opera and of Selim and his plans for _Il Muto_, which would be staged tomorrow night. His noose was readied. Carlotta's throat spray was prepared. All he had left to do was ensure chaos fell exactly the way he wanted it to.

* * *

A considerable amount of time later Erik peered out into the central cavern and saw Selim asleep at the table by the organ, the book open in front of her. He smiled and sat back, intending to retire once more himself, but then the guilt stirred in his stomach once more and he had to ask himself again what he would do if she were Christine. And the answer was, not leave her there. So he went back out into the central cavern, gathered Selim carefully up into his arms, and carried her back to her alcove, setting her down in her bed, which was also a boat, though a very simple wooden one.

The first thing he noticed about her alcove was that it was freezing. It was a miracle Selim hadn't frozen as she slept during the nights. He couldn't leave her like this.

So he went back out and carried in two more candle stands for her alcove, lighting them and letting the heat begin to circulate inside the small stone room. He covered Selim with a few velvet blankets from his own bed – his bedroom was well lit and therefore never got too cold – and, his conscience clear at last, retired.

* * *

**This is long! I am SO SORRY it took so long to get out this out there. I had writer's block something terrible and life has been hectic and I still have college scholarship essays to write and basketball games to film and a commercial to make for film class. AAAUUUGGHH. Though I think the next chapter will be much easier to write. Sigh. Wish me luck. This story is definitely not over.**

**What'd you think? A little weird, out of character, cute? Just give me your feedback!**

**Love you all and thanks for reading!**

**Phantom, out!**


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